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MRS. E. OAKES SMITH. 



THE 



ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

SECOND EDITiejr. 

1871 i" 

NE W Y ORK: 
J. S. REDFIELD, CLINTON HALL. 

1846. 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, 

BY J. S. REDFIELB, 

in the Clerk's oflSce of the District Court of the United States 
for the Southern District of New York. 



Stereotyped by Redfield & Savage, 
13 Chambers Street, N. Y. 



PREFACE. 



The " Sinless Child and other Poems," by 
Mrs. Smith, first published in 1842, was intro- 
duced to the public by Mr. John Keese, editor 
of " The Poets of America illustrated by her 
Painters." The volume met with a favorable 
reception. It is no longer ia the market. Since 
its publication, Mrs. Smith has written some of 
her finest pieces. The present more complete 
and elegant edition of her poetical writings, is 
issued to meet the general and increasing de- 
mand for them. 

Mrs. Smith is a native of Portland, in the 
state of Maine. Descended, on the father's 
side, from Thomas Prince, one of the early 
Puritan governors of the Plymouth colony, and 
claiming, through the Oakeses, the same early 
identification with the first European planters 
of our soil, she may readily be supposed to have 
that characteristic which is so rarely found 
among us, Americanism ; and her writings in 
their department may be regarded as the genu- 
ine expression of an American mind. 

At the early age of sixteen. Miss Prince was 
married to Mr. Seba Smith, at that time editor 
of the leading political journal of his native 
state, and since then well known to his countiy- 



men as the original "Jack Doioning," whose 
great popularity has been attested by a score of 
imitators. The embarrassed affairs of Mr. 
Smith, (who, himself a poet, partook with a 
poet's sangTiineness of temper in that noted at- 
tempt to settle the wild lands of Maine, which 
proved so disastrous a speculation to some of 
the wealthiest families of the state,) first impelled 
Mrs. Smith to take up her pen to aid in the sup- 
port of her children. She had before that pe- 
riod, indeed, given utterance to her poetic sen- 
sibilities in several anonymous pieces, which are 
still much admired. But a shrinking and sen- 
siti^ modesty forbade her appearing as an au- 
thor; and though, when in her altered circum- 
stances, she found that her talents might be 
made available, she did not hesitate, like a true 
woman, to sacrifice feeling to duty, yet some of 
her most beautiful prose writings still continue 
to appear under Nommes de Plumes, with which 
her truly feminine spirit avoids identification. 

Seeking expression, yet shrinking from noto- 
riety; and with a full share of that respect for a 
just fame and appreciation which belongs to 
every high-toned mind, yet oppressed by its 
shadow when circumstance is the impelling mo- 
tive of publication, the writings of Mrs. Smith 
might well be supposed to betray great inequal- 
ity ; still in her many contributions to the mag- 
azines, it is remarkable how few of her pieces 
display the usual carelessness and haste of maga- 
zine articles. As an essayist especially, wmle 



graceful and lively, she is compact and vigorous ; 
while through poems, essays, tales, and criticisms, 
(for her industrious pen seems equally skilful and 
happy in each of these departments of litera- 
ture,) through all her manifold writings, indeed, 
there runs the same beautiful vein of philoso- 
phy, viz : that Truth and Goodness of them- 
selves impart a holy light to the mind, which 
gives it a power far above mere intellectuality ; 
that the highest order of human intelligence 
springs from the moral, and not the reasoning 
faculties. 

Mrs. Smith's most popular poem is " The 
Acorn," which, though inferior in high inspira- 
tion to " The Sinless Child," is by many preferred 
for its happy play of fancy and proper finish. 
Her sonnets, of which she has written many, 
have not yet been as much admired as " The 
April Rain," " The Brook," and other fugitive 
pieces, w^hich w^e find in many popular collec- 
tions. I doubt, indeed, whether they will ever 
attain the popularity of these " unconsidered tri- 
fles," though they indicate concentrated poetical 
power of a very high, possibly of the very high- 
est order. Not so, however, with " The Sinless 
Child." "Works of bad taste will often captivate 
the uncultivated many ; works of mere taste as 
often delight the uncultivated few ; but works 
of genius appeal to the universal mind. 

The simplicity of diction, and pervading 
beauty and elevation of thought, which are the 
chief characteristics of " The Sinless Child," 



bring it undoubtedly within the last category. 
And why do such writings seize at once on the 
feelings of every class ? Wherein lies this pow- 
er of genius to wake a response in society ? Is 
it the force of a high will, fusing feeble natures, 
and stamping them for the moment with an im- 
j press of its own ? Or is it that in every heart, 
I unless thoroughly corrupted by the world, in ev- 
j ery mind, unless completely encrusted by cant, 
{ there lurks an inward sense of the simple, the 
: beautiful, and the true ; an instinctive perception 
' of excellence which is both more unerring and 
i more universal than that of mere intellect. Such 
is the cheering view of humanity enforced in 
" The Sinless Child," and the reception of it is 
evidence of the truth of the doctrine it so finely 
shadows forth. " It is a work" (says a discrirain- 
ating critic) "which demands more in its compo- 
sition than mere imagination or intellect could 
supply ;" and I may add that the writer, in un- 
consciously picturing the actual graces of her 
own mind, has made an irresistible appeal to 
the ideal of soul-loveliness in the minds of her 
readers. She comes before us like the florist in 
Arabian story, whose magic vase produced a 
plant of such simple, yet perfect beauty, that the 
multitude were in raptures from the familiar field 
associations of childhood which it called forth, 
while the skill of the learned alone detected 
the unique rarity of the enchanting flower. 
RuFus W. Griswold. 
Philadelphia, June lOth, 1845. 



CONTENTS. 



TABLE OP CONTENTS. 



The Sinless Child Page 13 

Notes to Sinless Child 91 

Sonnets— 

Poesy 95 

The Bard 96 

The Unattained 97 

Religion 98 

A Dream 99 

An Incident 100 

Error 101 

Mental Solitude 102 

Distrust 103 

Illustration of a Cameo 104 

The Rustic, 1 105 

The Rustic, II 106 

Wayfarers 107 

Twilight 1 08 

To the Opal 109 

Duty 110 

The Pilgrim Ill 



10 CONTENTS. 



Sympathy, I Page 112 

Sympathy, II 113 

Self-Renunciation 114 

To the Hudson 115 

Life 116 

Youth 117 

Manhood 118 

Old Age 119 

Life-Long Martyrdom 120 

Capital Punishment 121 

Atheism 122 

Reason 124 

Annihilation 125 

The Acorn 126 

Miscellaneous Poems— 

The April Rain 138 

The Water 141 

The Park Fountain 144 

The Last Shot 146 

Thou hast Loved 148 

Presages 150 

The Love of Lady Ann 151 

Childhood's Laugh 153 

The Child and the Rose 156 

To a Babe 158 

The Child's Benediction 160 

Love Sheltered 162 

The Guardian Angel 164 



11 



The First Leaf of Autumn Page 165 

Ministering Spirits 167 

Farewell to Fancy 169 

The Eleventh Hour 171 

The Appeal 172 

The Jewish Captive 175 

Song 1 179 

Song II 180 

Song III 181 

The Brook 182 

The Sleep of Plants 186 

The Flower of Innocence 188 

The Old Man 190 

The Drowned Mariner 192 

The Summons Answered 196 

The Twice-Told Seal 200 

The Voice of the Age 202 



THE SINLESS CHILD, 



" 1 say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold 
the face of my Father, which is in heaven."— JVfaJtAeto, sviii. 10. 



THE 



INSCRIPTION. 



Sweet Eva ! shall I send thee forth, to other 

hearts to speak ? 
With all thy timidness and love companionship 

to seek? 
Send thee with all thy abstract ways, thy more 

than earthly tone — 
An exile, dearest, send thee forth, thou, who art 

all mine own ! 
Thou art my spirit's cherished dream, its pure 

ideal birth ; 
And thou hast nestled in my heart, with love 

that's not of earth. 
Alas ! for I have failed, methinks, thy mystic life 

to trace ; 
Thy holiness of thought and soul, thy wild en- 
chanting grace. 



16 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



Thou dwellest still within my heart, thy heauty 

all unsung ; 
Like bells that wake the village ear, by echo 

sweeter rung ; 
And as thy graces one by one upon my fancy steal. 
There lingereth yet another grace the soul alone 

can feel. 
With thee I've wandered, cherished one, at 

twilight's dreamy hour, 
To learn the language of the bird, the mystery 

of the flower; 
And gloomy must that sorrow be, which thou 

couldst not dispel, 
As thoughtfully we loitered on by stream or fihel- 

tered dell. 

Thou fond Ideal ! vital made, the trusting, earn- 
est, true; 
Who fostered sacred, undefiled, my heart's pure, 

youthful dew ; 
Thou woraan-soul, all tender, meek, thou wilt 

not leave me now 
To bear alone the weary thoughts that stamp an 

aching brow^ ! 
Yet go ! I may not say farewell, for thou wilt 

not forsake. 
Thou 'It linger, Eva, wilt thou not, all hallowed 

thoughts to wake ? 
Then go ; and speak to kindred hearts in purity 

and truth ; 
And win the spirit back again, to Love, and 

Peace, and Youth. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 17 



PART I. 

Eva, a simple cottage maiden, given to the world 
in the widowhood of one parent, and the angelic 
existence of the other, like a bud developed amid 
the sad sweet sunshine of autumn, when its sister- 
flowers are all sleeping, is found from her birth to 
be as meek and gentle as are those pale flowers 
that look imploringly upon us, blooming as they do 
apart from the season destined for their existence, 
and when those that should hold tender companion- 
ship with them have ceased to be. She is gifted 
with the power of interpreting the beautiful mys- 
teries of our earth. The delicate pencilhng traced 
upon the petals of the flowers, she finds full of 
gentle wisdom, as well as beauty. The song of 
the bird is not merely the gushing forth of a nature 
too full of blessedness to be silent, but she finds it 
responsive to the great harp of the universe, whose 
every tone is wisdom and goodness. The humblest 
plant, the simplest insect, is each alive with truth. 
More than this, she beholds a divine agency in all 
things, carrying on the great purposes of love and 
wisdom by the aid of innumerable happy spirits, 
each dehghting in the part assigned it. She sees 
the world, not merely with mortal eyes, but looks 
within to the pure internal life, of which the out- 
ward is but a type. Her mother, endowed with 
ordinary perceptions, fails to understand the high 



18 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



spiritual character of her daughter, but feels daily 
the truthfulness and purity of her life. The neigh- 
bors, too, feel that Eva is unlike her sex only in 
greater truth and elevation. 

Whilom ago, in lowly life, 

Young Eva lived and smiled, 
A fair-haired girl, of wondrous truth, 

And blameless from a child. 
Gentle she w^as, and full of love. 

With voice exceeding sweet, 
And eyes of dove-like tenderness. 

Where joy and sadness meet. 

No Father's lip her brow had kissed, 

Or breathed for her a prayer ; 
The widowed breast on which she slept, 

Was full of doubt and care ; 
And oft was Eva's httle cheek 

Heaved by her mother's sigh — 
And oft the widow shrunk in fear 

From her sweet baby's eye, 

For she would lift her pillowed head 

To look within her face, 
With something of reproachfulness. 

As well as infant grace, — 
A trembling lip, an earnest eye, 

Half smiling, half in tears, 
As she would seek to comprehend 

The secret of her fears. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 19 

Her ways were gentle while a babe, 

With calm and tranquil eye, 
That turned instinctively to seek 

The blueness of the sky. 
A holy smile was on her lip 

Whenever sleep was there, 
She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hushed 

Amid the silent air. 



And ere she left with tottling steps 

The low-roofed cottage door, 
The beetle and the cricket loved 

The young child on the floor ; 
For every insect dwelt secure 

\Vhere little Eva played ; 
And piped for her its blithest song 

When she in greenwood strayed ; 

With wing of gauze and mailed coat 

They gathered round her feet, 
Rejoiced, as are all gladsome things, 

A truthful soul to greet 
They taught her infant lips to sing 

With them a hymn of praise. 
The song that in the woods is heard, 

Through the long summer days. 

And everywhere the child was traced 

By snatches of wild song, 
That marked her feet along the vale, 

Or hill-side, fleet and strong. 



She knew the haunts of every bird — 
Where bloomed the sheltered flower, 

So sheltered, that the searching frost 
Might scarcely find its bower. 

No loneliness young Eva knew, 

Though playmates she had none ; 
Such sweet companionship was hers, 

She could not be alone ; 
For everything in earth or sky 

Caressed the little child. 
The joyous bird upon the wing, j 

The blossom in the wild : j 

Much dwelt she on the green hill-side, 

And under forest tree ; 
Beside the running, babbling brook, 

Where lithe trout sported free — 
She saw them dart, like stringed gems, i 

Where the tangled roots were deep, j 

And learned that love for evermore | 

The heart will joyful keep. 

She loved all simple flowers that spring j 

In grove or sun-lit dell, 
And of each streak and varied hue ! 

Would pretty meanings tell. 
For her a language was impressed 

On every leaf that grew, 
And lines revealing brighter worlds 

That seraph fingers drew. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 21 

The opening bud that light!y swxmg 

Upon the dewy air, 
Moved in its very sportiveness 

Beneath angelic care ; 
She saw that pearly fingers oped 

Each curved and painted leaf, 
And where the canker-worm had been 

Were looks of angel grief 

Each tiny leaf became a scroll 

Inscribed with holy tnith, 
A lesson that around the heart 

Should keep the dew of youth ; 
Bright missals from angelic throngs 

In every by-way left, 
How were the earth of glory shorn, 

Were it of flowers bereft ! 

They tremble on the Alpine height ; 

The fissured rock they press ; 
The desert wild, with heat and sand, 

Shares too, their blessedness. 
And wheresoe'er the ■weary heart 

Turns in its dim despair, 
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks 

Inviting it to prayer. 

The widow's cot was rude and low. 

The sloping roof moss-grown ; 
And it would seem its quietude 

To every bird were known, 



The winding vine quaint tendrils wove 

Round roof and oaken door, 
And by the flickering light, the leaves 

Were painted on the floor. 

No noxious reptile ever there 

A kindred being sought, 
The good and beautiful alone 

Delighted in the spot. 
The very winds were hushed to peace 

Within the quiet dell. 
Or murmured through the rustling bough 

Like breathings of a shell. 

The red-breast sang from sheltering tree, 

Gay blossoms clustered round, 
And one small brook came dancing by, 

With a sweet tinkling sound. 
Staining the far-off meadow green 

It leaped a rocky dell 
And resting by the cottage door, 

In liquid music fell. 

Upon its breast white lilies slept, 

Of pure and wax-like hue, 
And brilliant flowers upon the marge 

Luxuriantly grew. 
They were of rare and changeless birth, 

Nor needed toil nor care ; 
And many marvelled earth could yield 

Aught so exceedbg fair. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 23 

Young Eva said, all noisome weeds 

Would pass from earth away, 
When virtue in the human heart 

Held its predestined sway ; 
Exalted thoughts were alway hers, 

Some deemed them strange and wild ; 
And hence in all the hamlets round, 

Her name of Sinless Child. 

Her mother told how Eva's lips 

Had never falsehood known ; 
No angry word had ever marred 

The music of their tone. 
And truth spake out in every line 

Of her fair tranquil face, 
Where Love and Peace, twin-dwelling pair, 

Had found a resting-place. 

She felt the freedom and the light 

The pure in heart may know — 
Whose blessed privilege it is 

To walk with God below ; 
Who see a hidden beauty traced. 

That others may not see, 
Who feel a life within the heart, 

And love and mystery. 



24 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



PART II 



The widow, accustomed to forms, and content 
with the faith in which she has been reared, a faith 
which is habitual, rather than earnest and soul-re- 
quiring, leaves Eva to learn the wants and ten- 
dencies of the soul, by. observing the harmony and 
beauty of the external world. Even from infancy 
she seems to have penetrated the spiritual through 
the material ; to have beheld the heavenly, not 
through a glass darkly, but face to face, by means 
of that singleness and truth, that looks within the 
veil. To the pure in heart alone is the promise, 
" They shall see God." 

Untiring all the weary day 

The widow toiled with care, 
And scarcely cleared her furrowed brow 

When came the hour of prayer; 
The voices, that on every side, 

The prisoned soul call forth, 
And bid it in its freedom walk, 

Rejoicing in the earth ; 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 25 

Fall idly on a deafened ear, 

A heart untaught to thrill 
When music gusheth from the bird. 

Or from the crystal rill; 
She moves unheeding by the flower 

"With its ministry of love, 
And feels no sweet companionship, 

With silent stars above. 

Alas ! that round the human soul 

The cords of earth should bind, 
That they should bind in darkness down 

The light—discerning mind- 
That all its freshness, freedom, gone, 

Its destiny forgot, 
It should, in gloomy discontent, 

Bewail its bitter lot. 

But Eva, while she turned the wheel, 

Or toiled in homely guise, 
With buoyant life was all abroad, 

Beneath the pleasant skies; 
And sang all day from lightsome heart, 

From joy that in her dwelt, 
That evermore the soul is free, 

To go where joy is felt. 

All lowly and familiar things 

In eaith, or air, or sky, 
A lesson brought to Eva's mind 

Of import deep and high; 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 



She learned, from blossom in the wild, 

From bird upon the wing, 
From silence and the midnight stars, 

Truth dwells in everything. 

The careless winds that round her played 

Brought voices to her ear, 
But Eva, pure in thought and soul, 

Dreamed never once of fear — 
The whispered words of angel lips 

She heard in fur est wild, 
And many a holy spell they wrought, 

About the Sinless Child. 

And much she loved the forest walk, 

Where round the shadows fell, 
The solitude of mountain height, 

Or green and lowly dell ; 
The brook dispensing verdure round, 

And singing on its way, 
Now coyly hid in fringe of green. 

Now wild in sparkling play. 

She early marked the butterfly, 

That gay, mysterious thing, 
That, bursting from its prison-house 



Appeared on golden 



win 



It had no voice to speak delight. 
Yet on the floweret's breast. 

She saw it mute and motionless, 
In long, long rapture rest. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 27 



She said, that while the little shroud 

Beneath the casement hung, 
A kindly spirit lingered near, 

As dimly there it swung ; 
That music sweet and low was heard 

To hail the perfect Hfe, 
And Eva felt that insect strange 

With wondrous truth was rife. 



It crawled no more a sluggish thing 

Upon the lowly earth ; 
A brief, brief sleep, and then she saw 

A new and radiant birth ; 
And thus she learned without a doubt, 

That man from death would rise. 
As did the butterfly on wings. 

To claim its native skies. 



The rambow, bending o'er the storm, 

A beauteous language told ; 
For angels, twined with loving arms. 

She plainly might behold. 
And in their glorious i-obes they bent 

To earth in wondrous love. 
As they would lure the human soul 

To brighter things above. 

The bird would leave the rocking branch 

Upon her hand to sing. 
And upward turn its fearless eye 

And plume its glossy wing, 



28 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

And Eva listened to the song, 

Till all the sense concealed 
In that deep gushing forth of joy, 

Became to her revealed. 

And v\^hen the bird a nest would build, 

A spirit from above 
Directed all the pretty work, 

And filled its heart with love. 
And she within tlie nest \vould peep 

The colored eggs to see, 
But never touch the dainty things, 

For a thoughtfnl child was she. 

Much Eva loved the twilight hour, 

When shadovv.s gather round, 
And softer sings the little bird, 

And insect from the ground ; 
She felt that this within the heart 

Must be the hour of prayer, 
For even earth in quietude 

Did own its Maker there. 

The still moon in the saffron sky 

Hung out her silver thread, 
And the bannered clouds in gorgeous folds 

A mantle round her spread. 
The gentle stars came smiling down 

Upon the brilliant sky. 
That looked a meet and glorious dome, 

For worship pure and high ; 



And Eva lingered, though the gloom 

Had deepened into shade ; 
And many thought that spirits came 

To teach the Sinless Maid, 
For oft her mother sought the child 

Amid the forest glade. 
And marvelled that in darksome glen, 

So tranquilly she stayed. 

For every jagged limb to her 

A shadowy semblance hath, 
Of spectres and distorted shapes, 

That frown upon her path. 
And mock her with their hideous eyes ; 

For wheu the soul is blind 
To freedom, truth, and inward light, 

Vague fears debase the mind : 

But Eva like a dreamer waked. 

Looked oflp upon the hill, 
And murmured words of strange, sweet sound, 

As if there lingered still 
Ethereal forms with whom she talked, 

Unseen by all beside ; 
And she with earnest looks, besought 

The vision to abide. 

' Oh Mother ! Mother ! do not speak, 

Or all will pass away. 
The spirits leave the green-hill side, 

Where light the breezes play; 



30 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

They sport no more by ringing brook, 

With daisy dreaming by ; 
Nor float upon the fleecy cloud 

That steals along the sky. 

It grieves me much they never will 

A human look abide, 
But veil themselves in silver mist 

By vale or mountain side. 
I feel their presence round me still, 

Though none to sight appear; 
I feel the motion of their wings, 

Their whispered language hear. 

With silvery robe, and wings outspread, 

They passed me even now ; 
And gems and starry diadem 

Decked every radiant brow. 
Intent were each on some kind work 

Of pity or of love. 
Dispensing from their healing wings 

The blessings from above. 

With downy pinion they enfold 

The heart surcharged with wo, 
And fan with balmy wing the eye 

Whence floods of sorrow flow ; 
They bear, in golden censers up, 

That sacred gift, a tear ; 
By which la registered the griefs, 

Hearts may have suffered here. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 31 

No inward pang, no yearning love 

Is lost to human hearts, 
No anguish that the spirit feels, 

When bright- winged hope departs; 
Though in the mystery of life 

Discordant powers prevail ; 
That life itself be weariness, 

And sympathy may fail : 

Yet all becomes a discipline, 

To lure us to the sky ; 
And angels bear the good it brings 

With fostering care on high , 
Though human hearts may weary grow, 

And sink to toil-spent sleep, 
And we are left in solitude, 

And agony to weep : 

Yet Uvey with ministering zeal, 

The cup of healing briii;^', 
And bear our love and gratitude 

Away, on heavenward wing ; 
And thus the inner life is wrought, 

The blending earth and heaven; 
The love more earnest in its glow, 

Where much has been forgiven! 

I would, dear Mother, thou coaldst see 

Within this darksome veil, 
That hides the spirit-land from thee, 

And makes our sunshine pale ; 



32 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

The toil of earth, its doubt and care, 
Would ti-ifles seem to thee ; 

Repose would rest upon thy soul. 
And holy mystery. 

Thou wouldst behold protecting care 

To shield thee on thy way, 
And ministers to guard thy feet, 

Lest erring, they should stray ; 
And order, sympathy, and love, 

"Would open to thine eye. 
From simplest creature of the earth 

To seraph throned on high. 

E'en now I marked a radiant throng, 

On soft w^ing sailing by. 
To sooth with hope the trembling heart, 

And cheer the dying eye ; 
They smiling passed the lesser sprites, 

Each on his work intent ; 
And love and holy joy I saw 

In every face were blent. 

The tender violets bent in smiles 

To elves that sported nigh, 
Tossing the drops of fragrant dew 

To scent the evening sky. 
They kissed the rose in love and mirth, 

And its petals fairer grew, 
A shower of pearly dust they brought, 

And o'er the lily threw. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 33 

A host flew round the mowing field, 

And they were showering down 
The cooling spray on the early grass, 

Like diamonds o'er it thrown ; 
They gemmed each leaf and quivering spear 

With pearls of liquid dew, 
And bathed the stately forest tree, 

Till his robe was fresh and new. 

I saw a meek-eyed creature curve 

The tulip's painted cup, 
And bless with one soft kiss the urn, 

Then fold the petals up. 
A finger rocked the young bird's nest, 

As high on a branch it hung. 
And the gleaming night-dew rattled down, 

Where the old dry leaf was flung. 

Bach and all, as its task is done, 

Soars up with a joyous eye. 
Bearing aloft some treasured gift — 

An offering on high. 
They bear the breath of the odorous flower, 

The sound of the bright-sea shell ; 
And thus they add to the holy joys 

Of the home where spirits dwell. 



34 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



PART III. 



The grace of the soul is sure to impart expres- 
siveness and beauty to the face. It must beam 
througli its external veil ; and daily, as the mate- 
rial becomes subordinate to the spiritual, will its 
transparency increase. Eva was lovely, for the 
spirit of love folded its wings upon her breast. All 
nature administered to her beauty ; and angelic 
teachings revealed whence came the power that \ 
winneth all hearts. The mother is aware of the 
spell resting upon her daughter, or rather, that 
which seemed a spell to her, but which, in truth, 
was nothing more than fidelity to the rights of the 
soul, obedience to the voice uttered in triat holy of 
holies. Unable to comprehend the truthfulness of 
her character, she almost recoils from its gentle re- 
vealings. Alas ! that to assimilate to the good and 
beautiful should debar us from human sympathy ! ; 
Eva walked in an atmosphere of light, and images 
of surpassing sweetness were ever presented to 
her eye. The dark and distorted shapes that haunt 
the vision of the unenhghtened and the erring, ■ 
dared not approach her. She wept over the blind- j 
ness of her mother, and tenderly revealed to her 
the great truths that pressed upon her own mind, 
and the freedom and the light in which the soul 
might be preserved. She blamed not the errors 
into which weak humanity is prone to be betrayed, 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 35 



but deplored that it should thus blind its own 
spiritual vision, and thus impress dark and in- 
effaceable characters upon the soul ; thus sink, 
where it should soar. 



As years passed on, no wonder, each 

An inward grace revealed ; 
For where the soul is peace and love, 

It may not be concealed. 
They stamp a beauty on the brow, 

A softness on the face, 
And give to every wavy line 

A tenderness and grace. 

Long golden hair in many curls 

"Waved o'er young Eva's brow ; 
Imparting depth to her soft eye. 

And pressed her neck of snow : 
Her cheek was pale with lofty thought, 

And calm her maiden air; 
And all who heard her birdlike voice, 

Felt harmony was there. 

For winning were her household ways, 

Her step was prompt and light, 
To save her mother's weary ti-ead. 

Till came the welcome night ; 
And though the toil might useless be, 

The housewife's busy skill, 
Enough for Eva that it bore 

Inscribed a mother's will ; 



36 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

All humble things exalted grow 

By sentiment impressed — 
The love that bathes the way-worn feet, 

Or leans upon the breast ; 
For love., whate'er the offering be, 

Lives in a hallowed air, 
And holy hearts before its shrine, 

Alone may worship there. 

Young Eva's cheek was lily pale, 

Her look was scarce of earth. 
And doubtingly the mother spoke, 

Who gave to Eva birth. 
" O Eva, leave thy thoughtful ways. 

And dance and sing, my child ; 
Thy pallid cheek is tinged with blue, 

Thy words are strange and wild. 

Thy father died — a widow left. 

An orphan birth was thine, 
I longed to see thy infant eyes 

Look upward into mine. 
I hoped upon thy sweet young face. 

Thy father's look to see ; 
But Eva, Eva, sadly strange 

Are all thy ways to me. 

While yet a child, thy look would hold 

Communion with the sky ; 
Too tranquil is thy maiden air, 

The glances of thine eye 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 



Are such as make me turn away, 
E'en with a shuddering dread, 

As if my very soul might be 
By thy pure spirit read." 

Slow swelled a tear from Eva's lid. 

She kissed her mother's cheek. 
She answered with an earnest look, 

And accents low and meek : — 
"Dear mother, Avhy should mortals seek 

Emotions to conceal ? 
As if to be revealed were worse 

Than inwardly to feel. 

The human eye I may not fear. 

It is the light within. 
That traces on the growing soul 

All thought, and every sin. 
That mystic book, the human soul, 

Where every trace remains. 
The recqrd of all thoughts and deeds. 

The record of all stains. 

Dear mother ! in ourselves is hid 

The holy spirit-land, 
Where thought, the flaming cherub, stands 

With its relentless brand ; 
We feel the pang when that dread sword 

Inscribes the hidden sin. 
And tumeth everywhere to guard 

The paradise within." 



38 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

"Nay, Eva, leave these solemn words, 

Fit for a churchman's tongue, 
And let me see thee deck thy hair, 

A maiden blithe and young. 
When others win admiring eyes, 

And looks that speak of love, 
Why dost thou stand in thoughtful gaise ? 

Why cold and silent move ? 

Thy beauty sure should win for thee 

Full many a lover's sigh. 
But on thy brow there is no pride, 

Nor in thy placid eye. 
Dear Eva ! learn to look and love, 

And claim a lover's prayer, 
Thou art too cold for one so young, 

So gentle and so fair." 

" Nay, mother ! I must be alone. 

With no companion here, 
None, none to joy when I am glad. 

With me to shed a tear : 
For who will clasp a maiden's hand 

In grot or sheltering grove, 
If one unearthly gift debar 

From sympathy and love ! 

Such gift is mine, the gift of thought, 
Whence all will shrink away. 

E'en thou from thy poor child dost tarn, 
With doubting and dismay. 



And who shall love, and who shall trust, 
Since she who gave me birth, 

Knows not the child that prattled once 
Beside her lonely hearth? 

I would I were, for thy dear sake, 

What thou wouldst have me be ; 
Thou dost not comprehend the bliss 

That's given unto me ; 
That union of the thought and soul 

With all that's good and bright, 
The blessedness of earth and sky. 

The growing truth and light. 

That reading of all hidden things 

The mystery of life, 
Its many hopes, its many fears, 

The sorrow and the strife. 
A spirit to behold in all. 

To guide, admonish, cheer. 
For ever in all time and place, 

To feel an angel near." 

'' Dear Eva ! lean upon my breast, 

And let me press thy hand. 
That I may hear thee talk awhile 

Of thy own spirit-land. 
And yet I would the pleasant sun 

Were shining in the sky. 
The blithe birds singing through the air, 

And busy life, were by. 



40 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

For when in converse, like to this, 

Thy low, sweet voice I hear, 
Strange shudderings o'er my senses creep, 

Like touch of spirits near. 
How fearful grow familiar things, 

In silence and the night. 
The cricket piping in the hearth, 

Half fills me with afiright ! 

I hear the old trees creak and sway, 

And shiver in the blast ; 
I hear the wailing of the wind. 

As if the dead swept past. 
Dear Eva ! 'tis a world of gloom, 

The grave is dark and drear, 
We scarce begin to taste of life 

Ere death is standing near." 

Then Eva kissed her mother's cheek. 

And looked with saddened smile, 
Upon her terror-stricken face, 

And talked with her the while ; 
And ! her face was pale and sweet, 

Though deep, deep thought was there, 
And sadly calm her low-toned voice 

For one so young and fair. 

" Nay, mother, everywhere is hid 

A beauty and delight. 
The shadow lies upon the heart, 

The gloom upon the sight ; 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 41 

Send but the spirit on its way 

Communion high to hold, 
And bursting from the earth and sky, 

A glory we behold ! 

And did we but our primal state 

Of purity retain, 
We might, as in our Eden days, 

With angels walk again. 
And memories strange of other times 

Would break upon the mind. 
The linkings, that the present join. 

To what is left behind. 

The little child at dawn of life 

A holy impress bears, 
The signet-mark by Heaven aflSxed 

Upon his forehead wears ; 
And naught that impress can efface. 

Save his ov^^n wilful sin, 
Which first begins to draw the veil 

That shuts the spirit in. 

And one by one his lights decay. 

His visions tend to earth, 
Till all those holy forms have fled 

That gathered round his birth ; 
Or dim and faintly may they come, 

Like memories of a dream. 
Or come to blanch his cheek with fear, 

So shadow-like they seem. 



And thus all doubtingly he lives 

Amid his gloomy fears, 
And feels within his inmost soul, 

Earth is a vale of tears : 
And scarce his darkened thoughts may trace 

The mystery within ; 
For faintly gleams the spirit forth 

When shadowed o'er by sin. 

Unrobed, majestic, should the soul 

Before its God appear, 
Undimmed the image He afiixed, 

Unknown to doubt or fear; 
And open converse should it hold, 

With meek and trusting brow; 
Such as man was in Paradise, 

He may be even now. 

But when the deathless soul is sunk 

To depths of guilt and wo, 
It then a dark communion holds 

With spirits from below." 
And Eva shuddered as she told 

How every heaven-born trace 
Of goodness in the human soul 

Might wickedness efface. 

Alas ! unknowing what he doth, 

A judgment-seat man rears, 
A stem tribunal throned within, 

Before which he appears ; 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 43 

And conscience, minister of wrath, 

Approves him or condemns ; 
He knoweth not the fearful risk, 

Who inward light contemns. 

" O veil thy face, pure child of Grod," 

With solemn tone she said, 
" And judge not thou, but lowly weep. 

That virtue should be dead ! 
Weep thou with prayer and holy fear. 

That o'er thy brothers soul. 
Effacing life, and light, and love. 

Polluting waves should roll. 

Weep for the fettered slave of sense. 

For passion's minion weep ! 
Tor him who nurture th the worm. 

In death that may not sleep ; 
And tears of blood, if it may be, 

For him, who plunged in guilt. 
Perils his own and victim's soul, 

When humaii blood is spilt. 

For him no glory may abide 

In earth or tranquil sky ; 
Fearful to him the human face. 

The searching human eye. 
A light beams on him everywhere ; 

Revealing in its ray, 
An erring, terror-stricken soul, 

Launched from its orb away. 



4 THE SINLESS CHILD 

Tom where he will, all day he meets 

That cold and leaden stare ; 
His victim, pale, and bathed iu blood, 

Is with him everywhere ; 
He sees that shape upon the cloud, 

It glares from out the brook, 
The mist upon the mountain side. 

Assumes that fearful look. 

He sees, in every simple flower, 

Those dying eyes gleam out ; 
And starts to hear a dying groan. 

Amid some merry shout. 
The phantom comes to chill the warmth, 

Of every sunlight ray, 
He feels it slowly glide along, 

Where forest shadows play. 

And when the solemn night comes down. 

With silence dark and drear, 
His csrdling blood and rising hair 

Attest the victim near. 
With hideous dreams and terrors wild, 

His brain from sleep is kept. 
For on his pillow, side by side, 

A gory form hath slept." 

" O Eva, Eva, say no more, * 

For I am filled with fear ; 
Dfan shadows move along the wall ; 

Dost thou not see them here ? — 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 45 

Dost thou not mark the gleams of light, 
The shadowy forms move by?" 

" Yes, mother, beautiful to see ! 
And they are always nigh. 

0, would the veil for thee were raised 

That hides the spirit-land, 
For we are spirits draped in flesh, 

Communing with that band ; 
And it were weariness to me, 

"Were only human eyes 
To meet my own with tenderness, 

In earth or pleasant skies." 




46 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



PART IV. 



The widow, awe-struck at the revealments of 
her daughter, is desirous to learn more; for it is 
the nature of the soul to search into its own mys- 
teries : however dim may be its spiritual perception, 
it still earnestly seeks to look into the deep and 
the hidden. The hght is within itself, and it be 
coiftes more and more clear at every step of its prog- 
ress, in search of the true and the beautiful. The 
w,idow, hardly discerning this light, which is to 
gi'ow brighter and brighter to the perfect day, calls 
for the material lights that minister to the exter- 
nal eye ; that thus she may be hid from those other 
lights that delight the vision of her child. Eva 
tells of that mystic book — the human soul — upon 
which, thoughts, shaped into deeds, whether ex- 
ternally, or only in its own secret chambers, in- 
scribe a character that must be 'eternal. But it 
is not every character that is thus clearly defined 
as good or evil. Few, indeed, seize upon thought, 
and bring its properties palpably before them. 
Impressions are allowed to come and go with a 
sort of lethargic indifference, leaving no definite 
lines behind, but only a moral haziness. The wid- 
ow recollects the story of old Richard, and Eva 



enlarges upon the power of conscience, that fear- 
ful judge placed by the Infinite within the soul, 
with the two-fold power of decision and punish- 
ment. 

" Then trim the lights, my strange, strange chUd, 

And let the fagots glow ; 
For more of these mysterious things 

I fear, yet long, to know. 
I glory in thy lofty thought. 

Thy beauty and thy worth, 
But, Eva, I should love thee more, 

Didst thou seem more like earth." 

A pang her words poor Eva gave. 

And tears were in her eye, 
She kissed her mother's anxious brow. 

And answered with a sigh ; 
•' Alas ! I may not hope on earth 

Companionship to find, 
Alone must be the pure in heart. 

Alone the high in mind ! 

We toil for earth, its shadowy veil 

Envelops soul and thought. 
And hides that discipline and life, 

Within our being wrought. 
We chain the thought, we shroud the soul, 

And backward turn our glance, 
When onward should the vision be, 

And upward its advance. 



48 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



I may not scorn the spirit's rights, 

For I have seen it rise, 
All written o'er with thought, thought, thought, 

As with a thousand eyes ! 
The records dark of other years, 

All unefFaced remain ; 
The unchecked wish forgotten long, 

With its eternal stain. 

Recorded thoughts, recorded deeds, 

A character attest, 
No garment hides the startling truth, 

Nor screens the naked breast. 
The thoaght, fore-shaping evil deeds, 

The spirit may not hide, 
It stands amid a searching light. 

Which sin may not abide. 

And never may the spirit turn 

From that effulgent ray, 
It lives for ever in the glare 

Of an eternal day ; 
Lives in that penetrating light, 

A kindred glow to raise, 
Or every withering sin to trace 

Within its scorching blaze. 

Few, few the shapely temple rear, 

For God's abiding place — 
That mystic temple where no 

Withm the hallowed space 



Reveals the skill of builder's hand ; 

Yet with a silent care 
The holy temple riseth up, 

And God is dwellmg there, (a) 

Then weep not when the infant lies 

In its small grave to rest, 
With scented flowers springing forth 

From out its quiet breast ; 
A pure, pure soul to earth was given, 

Yet may not thus remain ; 
Rejoice that it is rendered back, 

Without a single stain. 

Bright cherubs bear the babe away 

With many a fond embrace, 
And beauty, all unknown to earth. 

Upon its features trace. 
They teach it knowledge from the fount, 

And holy truth and love ; 
The songs of praise the infant learns, 

As angels sing above." 

The widow rose, and on the blaze 

The crackling fagots throw — 
And then to her maternal breast 

Her gentle daughter drew. 
" Dear Eva ! when old Richard died, 

In madness fierce and wild, 
Why did he in his phrensy rave 

About a murdered child !" 



50 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

" Dear mother, I have something heard 

Of Richard's fearful life, 
Hints of a child that disappeared, 

And of heart-broken wife — 
If thou the story wilt relate, 

A light will on me grow 
That I shall feel if guilt were his 

Or only common wo." 

THE STOBT OF OLD RICHARD. 

" He died in beggary and rags, friendless, and 
gray, and old ; 

Yet he was once a thriving man, light-hearted 
too, I 'm told. 

Dark deeds were whispered years ago, but noth- 
ing came to light ; 

He seemed the victim of a spell, that nothing 
would go right. 

His young wife died, and her last words were 
breathed to him alone. 

But 'twas a piteous sound to hear her faint, 
heart-rending moan. 

Some thought, in dreams he had divulged a se- 
cret hidden crime, 

Which she concealed with breaking heart, unto 
her dying time." 

" Ah, mother, tis a fearful thing. 

When human bonds unite 
Unwedded hearts, and they are doomed 

For ever, day and night, 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 51 



Companionship to hold, 

Yet feeling every hour, 
A beauty fading from the earth, 

Thought losing half its power." 

"From that day forth he never smiled; morose 

and silent grown, 
He wandered unfrequented ways, a moody man 

and lone. 
The schoolboy shuddered in the wood, when he 

old Richard passed, 
And harried on, while fearful looks he o'er hia 

shoulder cast. 



And naught could lure him from his mood, save 
his own trusting boy. 

Who climbed the silent father's neck, with min- 
istry of joy ; 

That geutle boy, unlike a child, companions 
never sought. 

Content to share his father's crust, his father's 
gloomy lot. 

With weary foot and tattered robe, beside him, 
day by day. 

He roamed the forest and the hill, and o'er the 
rough highway ; 

And he would prattle all the time of things to 
childhood sweet ; 

Of singing bird or lovely flower, that sprang be- 
neath their feet. 



52 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



Sometimes he chid the moody man, with child- 
hood's fond appeal : — 

' Dear father, talk to me awhile, how very lone 
I feel ! 

My mother used to smile bo sad, and talk and 
kiss my cheek, 

And sing to me such pretty songs ; so low and 
gently speak.' 

Then Richard took him in his arms with passion- 
ate embrace, 

And with an aching tenderness he gazed upon 
his face ; — 

Tears rushed into his hollow eyes, he murmured 
soft and wild, 

And kissed with more than woman's love the 
fond but frightened child. 

He died, that worn and weary boy ; and they 
that saw him die, 

Said on his father's rigid brow was fixed his fa- 
ding eye. 

His little stiffening hand was laid within poor 
Richard's grasp ; — 

And when he stooped for one last kiss, he took 
his dying gasp. 

It crazed his brain — poor Richard rose a maniac 

fierce and wild. 
Who mouthed and muttered everywhere, about 

a murdered child." 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 53 



"And well he might," young Eva said, 

" For conscience day by day, 
Commenced that retribution here. 

That filled him with dismay. 
A girl beguiled in her young years 

From all of youthful joy, 
And unto solitary life, 

Is doomed her stricken boy." 

Nor was this all the wido',r said, for in his early 

youth, 
There was a tale of love and wrong, of vows 

and perjured truth. 
The storm I do remember well that brought the 

bones to light ; 
I was a maiden then myself, with curly hair and 

bright. 

Unwedded, but a mother gi-own, poor Lucy 

pressed her child. 
With blushing cheek and drooping lid, and lip 

that never smiled. 
Their wants were few; but Hichard's hand 

must buy them daily bread. 
And fain would Lucy have been laid in silence 

with the dead. 

For want, and scorn, and blighted fame, had 

done the work of years, 
And oft she knelt in lowly prayer, in penitence 

and tears ; 



54 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



That undesired child of shame, brought comfort 

to her heart, 
A childlike smile to her pale lip, by its sweet 

baby art. 

And yet, as years their passage told, faint shad- 
ows slowly crept 

Upon the blighted maiden's mind, and oft she 
linelt and wept 

Unknowing why, her wavy form so thin and 
reed-like grew. 

And so appealing her blue eyes, they tears from 
others drew. 

Years passed away, and Lucy's child, a noble 

stripling grown, 
A daring boy with chestnut hair, and eyes of 

changeful brown. 
Had won the love of every heart, so gentle was 

his air. 
All felt, whate'er might be his birth, a manly 

soul was there. 



The boy was missing, none could tell where 

last he had been seen ; 
They searched the river many a day, and every 

forest screen ; 
But never more his filial voice poor Lucy's heart 

might cheer ; 
Lorn in her grief and dull with wo, she never 

shed a tear. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 55 



And every day, whate'er the sky, with head up- 
on her knees, 

And hair neglected, streaming out upon the 
passing breeze. 

She sat beneath a slender tree that near the riv- 
er grew, 

And on the stream its pendent limbs their pen- 
ciled shadows threw. 



The matron left her busy toil, and called her 

child from play. 
And gifts for the lone mourner there she sent 

with him away. 
The boy with nuts and irmt returned, found in 

the forest deep, 
A portion of his little store would for poor Lncy 

keep. 

That tree, with wonder all beheld, its growth 

was strange and rare ; 
The wintry winds, that wailing passed, scarce 

left its branches bare. 
And round the roots a verdant spot knew neither 

change nor blight. 
And so poor Lucy's resting-place was alway 

green and bright. 

Some said its bole more rapid grew from Lucy's 

bleeding heart. 
For, sighs from out the heart, 'tis said, a drop 

of blood will start (6) 



66 THE SINLESS CHILD, 

It was an instinct deep and high which led the 

Mother there, 
And that tall tree aspiring grew, hy more than 

dew or air. 

The winds were hushed, the little bird scarce 

gave a nestling sound, 
The warm air slept along the hill, the blossoms 

drooped around ; 
The shrill-toned insect hardly stirred the dry and 

crisped leaf; 
The laborer laid his sickle down beside the 

bending sheaf. 

A dark portentous cloud is seen to monnt the 
eastern sky, 

The deep-toned thunder rolling on, proclaims 
the tempest nigh ! 

And now it breaks with deafening crash, and 
lightning's livid glow ; 

The torrents leap from mountain crags and wild- 
ly dash below. 

Behold the tree ! its strength is bowed, a shat- 
tered mass it lies ; 

What brings old Richard to the spot, with wild 
and blood-shot eyes ? 

Poor Lucy's form is lifeless there, and yet he 
turns away, 

To where a heap of mouldering bones beneath 
the strong roots lay. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 57 

Why takes he up with shrivelled hands, the riv- 
en root and stone, 

And spreads them w^ith a trembling haste upon 
each damp, gray bone. 

It may not be, the whirlwind's rage again hath 
left them bare. 

All bare, and mingled with the locks of Lucy's 
tangled hair," 

Of wife, and child, and friends bereft, 

And all that inward light. 
Which calmly guides the white-haired man, 

Who listens to the right ; 
Old Richard laid him down to die, 

Himself his only foe. 
His batfled nature groaning out 

Its weight of inward wo. 

Oh there are wrongs that selfish hearts 

Inflict on every side. 
And swell the depths of human iE 

Unto a surging tide, 
And there are things that blight the soul. 

As with a mildew blight. 
And in the temple of the Lord 

Put out the blessed light. 

There are, who mindless God hath given. 

To mark each human soul, 
Distinctive laws, distinctive rights. 

Its being to control, 



58 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

"Would, in their blind and selfish zeal, 
Remove God's wondrous gift, 

And, that their image might have place, 
God's altar veil would lift : 

They call it Love, forgetful they, 

That 'twas this hallowed screen, 
Concealing, half revealing too. 

The seen and the unseen, 
That first suggested deathless love. 

The infinite in grace. 
This inward and seraphic charm, 

That iioated o'er the face. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 59 



PART V. 



The storm is raging vdthout the dwelling of the 
widow, but all is tranquil within. Eva hath gone 
forth in spiritual vision, and beheld the cruelty 
engendered by wealth and luxur}'— the cruelty of a 
selfish and unsympathizing heart. Her mother tells 
the story of the neglected children and their afflu- 
ent stepmother. Sins of omission are often as ter- 
rible in their consequences, and as frightful in the 
retribution, as crimes committed intentionally. 
Certain quaUties of the heart are of such a nature, 
that, when in excess, they resolve themselves into 
appropriate forms. The symbol of evil becomes 
mentally identified with its substance, and the 
fearful shapes thus created haunt the vision like 
realities The injurer is always fearful of the in- 
jured. No wrong is ever done with a sense of se- 
curity ; least of all, wrong to the innocent and un- 
offending. The belief of a Protecting Power 
watching over infancy, is almost universal ; its 
agency being recognised even by those who have 
forgone the blessing in their own behalf. The lit- 
tle child is a mystery of gentleness and love, 
while it is preserved in its own atmosphere ; 
and it is a fearful thing to turn its young heart to 
bitterness ; to infuse sorrow and fear, where the 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 



elements should be only joy and faith. In maturer 
years, it is ever the state of the soul the prevail- 
ing motive— the essential character that involves 
human peace or wretchedness. " The Kingdom of 
Heaven is within you," said the Great Teacher ; 
and as we wander from the innocence of children, 
and allow selfishness or vice to increase upon the 
domain of the holy, distrust usurps the place of 
confidence and joy. 

The pair wile away the hours in domestic chat, 
Eva ever uttering her sweet mission of truth and 
fidelity to the internal life. The story of the Miser 
follows. No human law may be violated, all the 
claims of justice, and the common observances of 
society respected, and yet the soul be dead to its 
own real needs : may be defrauded of its " bread 
of life." The miser wakes to a perception of 
these things, and bewildered in his helpless gloom 
and ignorance commits suicide. 

The Icud winds rattled at the door — 

The shutters creaked and shook, 
While Eva, by the cottage hearth, 

Sat with abstracted look. 
With every gust, the big rain-drops 

Upon the casement beat, 
How doubly, on a night like this, 

Are home and comjfort sweet ! 



The maiden slowly raised her eyes, 
And pressed her pallid brow : — 

" Dear mother ! I have been far hence : 
My sight is absent now ! 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 61 

mother! 'tis a fearful thing, 

A human heart to wrong, 
To plant a sadness on the lip. 

Where smiles and peace belong. 

In selfishness or callous pride, 

The sacred tear to start. 
Or lightest finger dare to press 

Upon the burdened heart. 
And doubly fearful, when a child 

Lifts its imploring eye, 
And deprecates the cruel wrath 

With childhood's pleading cry. 

The child is made for smiles and joy, 

Sweet emigrant from Heaven, 
The sinless brow and trusting heart, 

To lure us there, were given. 
Then who shall dare the simple faith 

And loving heart to chill, 
Or its frank, upward, beaming eye 

With sorrowing tears to fill !" 

'Twas thus young Eva silence broke, 

While still the dame, intent 
On household thrift, croned at her work — 

Her sounding needles blent 
With flapping of the eager flame. 

Nor raised she once her eyes, 
But to her daughter's musing thought, 

In answering tale replies. 



62 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



THE STEPMOTHEB. 

You speak of Hobert's second wife, a lofty dame 

and bold, 
I like not her forbidding air and forehead high 

and cold, 
The orphans have no cause for grief, she dare 

not give it now, 
Though nothing but a ghostly fear, her heart of 

pride could bow. 

One night the boy his mother called, they heard 

him weeping say, 
" Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy's cheek, and 

wipe his tears away." 
Red grew the lady's brow with rage, and yet 

she feels a strife 
Of anger and of terror too, at thought of that 

dead wife. 

Wild roars the wind, the lights bum blue, the 
watch-dog howls with fear, 

Loud neighs the steed from out the stall : what 
foi-m is gliding near ? 

No latch is raised, no step is heard, but a phan- 
tom fills the space — 

A sheeted spectre from the dead, with cold and 
leaden face. 

What boots it that no other eye beheld the shade 

appear ! 
The guilty lady's guilty soul beheld it plain and 

clear. 



It slowly glides within the room, and sadly looks 

around — 
And stooping, kissed her daughter's cheek.with 

lips that gave no sound. 

Then softly on the step-dame's arm she laid a 
death-cold hand, 

Yet it hath scorched within the flesh like to a 
burning brand. 

And gliding on with noiseless foot, o'er winding 
stair and hall, 

She nears the chamber where is heard her in- 
fant's trembling call. 

She smoothed the pillow where he lay, she 
warmly tucked the bed. 

She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls that 
clustered round his head. 

The child, caressed, unknowing fear, hath nest- 
led him to rest ; 

The Mother folds her wings beside — the Mother 
from the Blest ! (c) 

"Fast by the eternal throne of God 

Celestial beings stand, 
Beings, who guide the little child 

With kind and loving hand : 
And wo to him who dares to turn 

The infant foot aside, 
Or shroud the light that ever should 

Within his soul abide. 



64 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

All evils of the outer world, 

The strong heart learns to bear, 
Bears proudly up the heavy weight, 

Or makes it light by prayer ; 
But when it passes through the door, 

To touch the life within, 
God shield the soul that dared to give 

An impulse unto sin." 

'T was thus the pair the hours beguiled. 

In lowliness content, 
For Eva to the humblest things, 

A grace and beauty lent, 
And half she wiled the thrifty dame 

From toil and vapid thought, 
To see how much of mystery 

In common life is wrought ; 

And daily learning deeper truth. 

She Eva ceased to chide ; 
Whose simple mission only sought 

The lowly fireside ; 
To cleanse the heart from selfishness, 

From coldness, pride, and hate ; 
That Love might be a dweller there, 

And Peace his dove-eyed mate. 

She saw that round her daughter grew, 

In all her guileless youth, 
The depth and grace of womanhood, 

The nobleness of truth ; 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 65 



And coarser natures shrank away, 
Awed by a strange rebuke, 

That lived within the purity 
Of every tone and look. 



And something like instinctive light, 

Broke feebly on her mind, 
That Love, the love of common hearts, 

Might not young Eva bind ; 
That she was made for ministry, 

To lofty cheer impart, 
And yet live on in tranquilness. 

And maidenhood of heart. 



And thence content around her grew, 

Content, that placid grace 
That clears the furrows of the cheek. 

And smooths the matron face ; 
And now she laid her knitting by. 

And quaint old legends told. 
About a miser years agone, 

A miser dull and old. 



THE DEFBATJDED HEART. 

For fifty years the old man's feet had crossed 

the oaken sill, 
No human eye his ovra to greet — the room is 

damp and chill — 



66 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

Silent he comes and silent goes, with cold and 

covert air, 
Around a searching look he throws, then mounts 

the creaking stair. 
He's a sallow man, with narrow heart, and 

feelings all of self — 
His thoiiglils he may to none impart ; they all 

are thoughts of pelf. 
But now he enters not the door, he lingers on 

the stone. 
What think you has come the old man o'er, that 

he loiters in the sun ? 



" Come hither, child," — he stretched his hand 

and held a boy from play — 
" The green old woods throughout the land — 

are they passing all away? 
I remember now 'tis a bye-gone joy since birds 

were singing here — 
'Twas a merry time, and I a boy to list their 

spring-time cheer." 
And then he loosed the wondering child, and 

fiercely closed the door. 
For there was something new and wild, that 

come his nature o'er — 
A crowding of unwonted thought, that might 

not be repressed. 
An inward pang that aching sought a sympa- 
thizing breast. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 67 



The long-lost years of sullen life apart from hu- 
man kind, 

Long torpid powers awaked to strife are strug- 
gling in his mind : 

The child still near the threshold stays and pon- 
ders o'er and o'er, 

With a perplexed and dull amaze the words 
of him of yore. 

A stealthy foot beneath the sill — a dty hand pale 
and tliin — 

And thus the old man hushed and still has drawn 
the boy within. 

" How long is't. child, since that cross-road the 
greenwood severed wide ? 

A pool there was — 'twas dark and broad with 
black and sluggish tide. 



It seems but yesterday that I was hunting bird's 

eggs there — 
To-day it chanced to meet mine eye, a dusty 

thoroughfare." 
Breathed freely once again the child, " That road 

was alway so." | 

And half in fear the urchin smiled, and made as 

he would go. 
"Nay once a goodly wood was there — ^wild 

blossoms in the spring, 
And darted thence the crouching hare and bird 

upon the wing, 



68 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



But now a lengthened dusty way — a cross- 
road — mile-stone too — 

Things that to you have been alway, to me are 
strange and new." 



" I have not slept these long blank years, for store 

of gold is here, 
Apart from joy, apart from tears, with neither 

grief nor cheer, 
And never on my conscience left the stain of any 

wrong, 
Why should I feel as one bereft, with yearnings 

new and strong ? 
Why hear a voice for ever cry, ' Unfaithful 

steward thou ! ' 
Come tell me, child, the sun is high — do chills 

oppress thee now ? " 
The boy glanced wistfully about the damp and 

lonely place. 
Then at the warm bright sun without, then in 

the old man's face. 



A moment shook his wasted frame as by a palsy 

touch. 
The white hair thither went and came, the bony 

fingers clutch 
Eaoh other with an eager speed; and then his 

thin lips part — 
" Come, child, canst thou the omen read 7 cheer 

up an old man's heart." 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 



The boy, half pitying, half in dread, looked in 
his pale cold face, 

" My grandam says, when footsteps tread upon 
our burial-place. 

Tread on the spot our grave to be, we feel a sud- 
den cold ; 

She's often said the thing to me, and she is very 
old." 



" Now get thee hence," the old man cried, " thou 

bringest little cheer." 
And then he thrust the boy aside as with a 

deadly fear ; 
Who wondering cast his eyes about to drink in 

life and air, 
And burst his lips in one wild shout, for both 

were buoyant there. 
Three days from thence a mound of earth the 

cross road marked anew, 
And children stayed their voice of mirth when 

they beside it drew — 
Unhallowed though the old man's rest, where 

men pass to and fro, 
The rudest foot aside is pressed from him who 

sleeps below, (e) 



70 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



PART VI. 



It is the noon of summer, and the noonday of | 
Eva's earthly existence. She hath held commu- 
nion with all that is great and beautiful in nature, 
till it hath become a part of lier being ; till her 
spirit iiath acquired strength and maturity, and 
been reared to a beautiful and harmonious temple, 
in which the true and the good deliglit to dwell. 
Then conieth the mystery of womanhood ; its 
gentle going forth of the affections seeking for 
that holiest of companionship, a kindred spirit, 
responding to all its tiner essences, and yet lifting 
it above itself. Eva had listened to this voice of 
her woman's nature ; and sweet visions had visit- 
ed her pillow. Unknown to the external vi.sion, j 
there was one ever present to the soul ; and when i 
he erred, she had feit a lowly sorrow that, while it j 
still more perfected her own nature, went forth to 
swell likewise the amount of good in the great I 
universe of God. At length Albert Linne, a gay | 
youth, whose errors are those of an ardent and j 
inexperienced nature, rather than of an assenting j 
will, meets Eva sleeping under the canopy of the 
great woods, and he is at once awed by the purity 
that enshrouds her. He is lifted to the contempla- 
tion of the good — to a sense of the wants of his 
better nature. Eva awakes and recognises the 



THE SINLESS CHILB. 71 



spirit that for ever and ever is to be one with hers ; 
that IS to complete that mystic marriage, known 
in the Paradise of fJod ; that marriage of soul 
with soul. Eva the pure-minded, the lofty in 
Ihouglit. and great in soul, recoiled not from the 
errors of him who was to be made meet for the 
kingdom of Heaven, through her gentle agency, 
for the mission of the good and the loving is not 
to the good, but to the erring. 

'T IS the summer prime, when the noiseless air 

In perfumed chalice lies, 
And the bee goes by with a lazy hum, 

Beneath the sleeping skies: 
When the brook is lov/, and the ripples bright. 

As down the stream they go ; 
The pebbles are dry on the upper side, 

A nd dark and wet below. 



The tree that stood where the soil's athirst, 

And the mulleins first appear, 
Hath a diy and rusty-colored bark. 

And its leaves are curled and sere ; 
But the dog-wood and the hazel bush, 

Have clustered round the brook — 
Their roots have stricken deep beneath, 

And they have a verdant look. 

To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings. 

And he gnaws it like a file, 
The naked stalks are withering by, 

Where he has been erewhile. 



72 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

The cncket hops on the glistering rock, 
Or pipes in the faded grass, 

The beetle's wing is folded mute, 
Where the steps of the idler pass. 

The widow donned her russet robe, 

Her cap of snowy hue, 
And o'er her staid maternal form 

A sober mantle threw ; 
And she, while fresh the morning light, 

Hath gone to pass the day, 
And ease an ailing neighbor's pain 

Across the meadow way. 

Young Eva closed the cottage-door; 

And wooed by bird and flower, 
She loitered on beneath the wood, 

Till came tlie noon-tide hour. 
The sloping bank is cool and green, 

Beside the sparkling rill ; 
The cloud that slumbers in the sky, 

Is painted on the hill. 

The spirits poised their purple wings 

O'er blossom, brook, and dell. 
And lingered in the quiet nook, 

As if they loved it well. 
Young Eva laid one snowy arm 

Upon a violet bank. 
And pillowed there her downy cheekf 

While she to slumber sank. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 73 

A smile is on her gentle lip, 

For she the angels saw, 
And felt their wings a covert make 

As round her head they draw. 
A maiden's sleep, how pure it is! 

The innocent repose 
That knows no dark nor troublous dream, 

Nor love's wild waking knows! 

A huntsman's whistle ; and anon 

The dogs come fawning round, 
And now they raise the pendent ear. 

And crouch along the ground. 
The hunter leaped the shrunken brook, 

The dogs hold back with awe. 
For they upon the violet bank 

The Numbering maiden saw. 

A reckless youth was Albert Linne, 

With licensed oath and jest, 
Who little cared for woman's fame. 

Or peaceful maiden rest. 
Light things to him, were broken vows — 

The blush, the sigh, the tear ; 
What hinders he should steal a kiss, 

From sleeping damsel here ? 

He looks, yet stays his eager foot ; 

For, on that spotless brow. 
And that closed lid, a something rests 

He never saw till now ; 



74 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

He gazes, yet he shrinl^is with awe 
From that fair -wondrous face, 

Those limbs so quietly disposed, 
With more than maiden grace. 



He seats himself upon tlie bank, 

And turns his face away, 
And Albert Linne, the hair-brained youth, 

Wished in his heart to pray. 
He looked within his very soul, 

Its hidden chamber saw, 
Inscribed with records dark and deep 

Of many a broken law. 

For thronging came his former life. 

What once he called delight, 

The goblet, oath, and stolen joy. 

How palled they on his sight! 

No more he thuiks of maiden fair, 

j No more of ravished kiss. 

I Forgets he that pure sleeper nigh 

! Hath brought his thoughts to this! 

! Unwonted thought it was for him 

Whose eager stirring life, 
Panted for action and renown, 

High deeds and daring strife ; 
Who scorning times of work-day zeal 

Wlien thought may power impart; 
In manly pastime sought to quell, 

The beatings of his heart. 



THE SINLKSS CHILD. 75 



Unwonted thought, unwonted calm, 

Upon hi3 spirit fell ; 
For he unwittingly had sought 

Young Eva's hallowed dell, 
And breathed that atmosphere of love. 

Around her path that gi-ew ; 
That evil from her steps repelled, 

The good unto her drew. 

Now Eva opes her child-like eyes, 

And lifts her tranquil head ; 
And Albert, like a guilty thing, 

Had from her presence tied. 
But Eva marked his troubled brow, 

His sad and thoughtful eyes, 
As if they sought, yet shrank to hold 

Their converse Avith the skies. 



And all her kindly nature stirred, 

She prayed him to remain ; 
Well conscious that the pure have power 

To balm much human pain. 
There mingled too, as in a dream, 

About brave Albert Linue, 
A real and ideal form. 

Her soul had framed within. 



And he whose ready jest had met 
The worldling in her pride, 

Felt all his reckless nature hushed. 
By hallowed Eva's side ; 



76 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



I And when she held her wavy hand, 
I And bade him stay awhile ; 
I He looked into her sinless eyes, 
j And marked her child-like smile : 
I 

I And that so pure and winning beamed, 
So calm and holy too, 
That o'er his troubled thoughts at once 

A quiet charm it threw. 
Light thought, light words were all forgot, 

He breathed a holier air, 
He felt the power of womanhood — 
Its parity was there. 

And soft beneath their silken fringe 

Beamed Eva's dovelike eyes, 
That seemed to claim a sisterhood, 

With something in the skies. 
Her gentle voice a part became 

Of air, and brook, and bird. 
And Albert listened, as if he 

Such music only heard. 

I O Eva ! thou the pure in heart, 
I Why falls thy trembling voice ? 

A blush is on thy maiden cheek. 
And yet thine eyes rejoice. 

Another glory wakes for thee, 
I Where'er thine eyes may rest ; 
i And deeper, holier moughts arise 
I Within thy peaceful breast. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 77 



Thine eyelids droop in tenderness, 

New smiles thy lips comhine, 
For thou dost feel another soul 

Is blending into thine. 
Thou upward raisest thy meek eyes, 

And it is sweet to thee ; 
To feel the weakness of thy sex, 

Is more than majesty. 

To feel thy shrinking nature claim 

The stronger arm and brow ; 
Thy weapons, smiles, and tears, and prayers, 

And blushes such as now. 
A woman, gentle Eva, thou. 

Thy lot were incomplete, 
Did not all sympathies of soul 

Within thy being meet. 

But Faith was thine, the angel gift, 

And Love untouched by earth. 
For Albert w^as the crown afilxed 

To thine immortal birth ; 
And not for thee the heavy pangs 

Of those, who, doomed by fate, 
Learn, through the lapse of weary years, 

To love, to watch, and wait. 

Oh not for thee for such as thee, 

To tremble with dismay. 
Lest baser hands pollute thy crown, 

And rieve its light away. 



78 THE SINLESS CHILD. 



Oh not for thee, the anguished prayer, 

The struggle long and late, 
The pleading of the still small voice, 

That bids thee trust and wait. 

Thou didst o'er-step this fleeting space, 

And grasp the higher world ; 
And angel-like thy pinions here, 

Their gloiy half unfurled. 
All evil to thy clear, calm eyes, 

Was but of transient date. 
'Tis not for such, like us to sit, 

And weep, and love, and wait ; 

Wait with a vain and mournful gaze 

For feet that linger long. 
Wait for the voice more dear to us, 

Than aught of mirth and song ; 
And grieving much, lest over-wronged. 

The spirit lose its mate ; 
And sit in deathful solitude, 

Alone, to watch and wait. 

No, Eva, for those eyes, that brow, 

That proud and manly air. 
Have often mingled with thy dreanas. 

And with thine earnest prayer ! 
And how hast thou, all timidly. 

Cast down thy maiden eye. 
When visions have revealed to thee 

That figure standing nigh ! 



THK SINLESS CHILD. 79 ! 

I 



Two spirits launched companionless 

A kindred essence sought, 
And one, in all its wanderings, 

Of such as Eva thought. 
The good, the beautiful, the true, 

Should nestle in his heart, 
Should lure him by her gentle voice, 

To choose the better part. 

And he that kindred being sought, 

Had searched with restless care 
For that true, earnest, woman-soul 

Among the bright and feir — 
He might not rest, he felt for him, 

One such had been created. 
Whose maiden soul in quietude 

For his all meekly waited. 

And oft when beaming eyes were nigh, 

And beauty's lip was smiling. 
And bird-like tones were breathing round 

The fevered sense beguiling ; 
He felt this was not w^hat he sought — 

The soul such mockery spurned. 
And evermore with aching zeal, 

For that one bemg yearned. 

And she whose loving soul went forth 

Wherever beauty dwelt ; 
Who with the truthful and the good 

A genial essence felt, 



L 



Oh ! often in her solitude, 
By her own soul oppressed, 

She fain had nestled like a dove 
Within one stronger breast. 

Though higher, holier far than those 

Who listening to her voice, 
A something caught of better things, 

That make the heart rejoice ; 
Yet teaching thus her spirit lone 

Aweary would have knelt, 
And learned with child-like reverence, 

Where deeper wisdom dwelt. 

And now that will of stronger growth. 

That spirit firmer made, 
Instinctive holds her own in check, 

Her timid footsteps stayed ; 
And Eva in her maidenhood. 

Half trembles with new fear. 
And on her lip that strange, deep smile, 

The handmaid of a tear. 

Oh, Eva, child of life and light, 

Did angel missions part, 
When half way in its flight to God, 

Was stayed thy maiden heart ? 
Thine eyes, that unarrested sought 

Their kindred in the sky, 
Now, with a gentle searohingness, 

Head first brave Albert's eye. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 81 

And was their glance undimnied from thence ? 

Was heaven as near to thee ? 
Did folding pinions guard thee still, 

Thoa child of niysteiy ? 
Did no dim shadows from without 

Darken thine inner light ? 
Didst thou in thy white meekness stand, 

As ever, calm and bright ? 

Oh, human Love ! thou seal of life, 

Link to the good and true, 
Strength to the fainting and infirm. 

And youth's perpetual dew ; 
So oft art thou allied to tears. 

To deep and hidden pain, 
That in our weakness we are prone. 

To deem thy mission vain : 

Too much remembering of thy griefs. 

Thy wildness and despair, 
We seek to God with streaming eyes, 

And agony of prayer. 
Far better did we fold our hands. 

The blessed boon above. 
Nor, heeding incidental pangs, 

Shield thus the gift of Love. 

While doubting thus, a seraph stayed 

His radiant course awhile ; 
And with a heavenly sympathy. 

Looked on with beaming smile : 



82 THE SINLESS CHILB. 



And thus his words of spirit-love 

Trust and assurance brought, 
And bade her where the soul finds birth, 

To weakly question not. 

" Content to feel — care not to know, 

The sacred source whence Love arise — 
Respect in modesty of soul, 

This mystery of mysteries : 
Mere mind with all its subtle arts, 

Hath only learned when tlius it gazed 
The inmost veil of human hearts, 

E'en to themselves must not be raised!" 

j But Eva doubted, questioned not, 

1 Content to only feel, 

j The music of a manly voice, 

} Upon her senses steal — 

I To find one heart instinctive learn 

I The beatings of her own, 

i And read afar unuttered thought 

i Known unto his alone. 

I 

I And firmer grew her heavenward life, 

1 Thus with another blent ; 

They, twin-born souls, tlie wedded twain, 
I One in God's covenant : 
j And she in modesty of soul, 
I Received the seal and smiled ; 
; The crowning grace of womanhood, 
i Upon the sinless child. 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 81 

Her trusting hand fair Eva laid 

In that of Albert Linne, 
And for one trembling moment turned 

Her gentle thoughts within. 
Deep tenderness was in the glance 

That rested on his face, 
As if her woman-heart had found 

Its own abiding place. 

And evermore to him it seemed 

Her voice more liquid grew, 
" Dear youth, thy soul and mine are one; 

One source their being drew ! 
And they must mingle evermore — 

Thy thoughts of love and me, 
Will, as a light, thy footsteps guide 

To life and mystery." 

There was no sadness in her tone, 

But Love unfathomed deep ; 
As from the centre of the soul. 

Where the Divine may sleep : 
Prophetic was the tone and look, 

And Albert's noble heart, 
Sank with a strange foreboding dread, 

Lest Eva should depart. 

And when she bent her timid eyes 

As she beside him knelt, 
The pressure of her sinless lips 

Upon his brow he felt, 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 



And all of earth, and all of sin, 

Fled from her sainted side ; 
She, the pure virgin of the soul, 

Ordained young Albert's bride. 

Low were her sweet and heart-breathed words, 

Low was her voice of prayer, 
Balmy and gentle was her love, 

Like dew in summer air; 
And Love, unto the Infinite, 

Like Eva's is allied, 
We say of such, "'tis gone before," 

But not that it hath died. 



PART VII. 



Eva hath fulfilled her destiny. Material things 
can no farther minister to the growth of her spirit. 
That waking of the soul to its own deep mysteries — 
its oneness with another — has been accomplished, i 
A human soul is perfected. She had moved amid ' 
the beings around her one, but unlike them — in 
the world, but not of it. Those who had felt the i 
wisdom of her sweet teachings, yet felt repelled, I 
as by a sacred influence. They dared not crave ■ 
companionship with a spirit so lofty, and yet so j 
meek. And thus, though the crowd, as it were, ! 
might press upon her, she was yet alone in her 
true spiritual atmosphere. To them she became a 
light, a guide, but to Albert Linne alone, was her 
mission of Womanhood. In her he learned that no 
one seeketh in vain, the good and the true — that 
as our faith is, it is given unto us. He confidently 
sought for the Divine, and it was given unto him. 
He but touched her garment and she perceived the 
soul test. 

Sorrow and pain— hope, with its kin-spirit, fear, 
are not for the sinless. She hatli walked in an at- i 
mosphere of light, and her faith looked within the 
veil. The true woman, with woman's love and ! 
gentleness, and trust and childlike simplicity, yet I 
with all her noble aspirations and spiritual discern- 
ments, she hath known them all without sin, and 

. . _J 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 



sorrow may not visit such. She ceased to be pres- 
I ent — she passed away like the petal that hath 
dropped from the rose— like the last sweet note of 
the singing-bird, or the dying close of the wind 
harp. Eva is the lost pleiad in the sky of woman- 
hood. Has her spirit ceased to be upon the earth? 
Does it not still brood over our woman hearts 1 — 
and doth not her voice blend ever with the sweet 
utterance of Nature ! Eva, mine own, my beauti- 
ful, I may not say— farewell. 

'T WAS night— bright beamed the silver moon, 

And all the stars w^ere dim ; 
The widow heard within the dell 

Sweet voices of a hymn, 
As loitering winds were made to sound 

Her sinless daughter's name ; 
While to the roof a rare toned-bird 

With w^ondrous music came. 

And long it sat upon the cot 

And poured its mellow song. 
That rose upon the stilly air, 

And swelled the vales along. 
It was no earthly thing she deemed, 

That, in the clear moonlight, 
Sat on the lowly cottage roof. 

And charmed the ear of night(d) 

The sun is up, the flowerets raise 

Their folded leaves from rest ; 
The bird is singing in the branch 

Hard by its dewy nest 



THE SINLESS CHILD. 87 

The spider's thread, from twig to twig, 

Is glittering iu tlie light, 
"With dew-drops has the web been hung 

Through all the starry night 

Why tarries Eva long in bed, 

For she is wont to be 
The first to greet the early bird, 

The wakiiia: bud to see ? 
Fresh as the dew of rose-lipped morn 

Her sweet young face was seen, 
Early amid the clustering blooms. 

And woodbine's tendrilled screen. 

Why tarries she in secret bower. 

Where lightly to and fro. 
The curtain rustles in the air, 

And shadows come and go ? 
Why stoops her mother o'er the couch 

With half-suppressed breath, 
And lifts the deep-fringed eyelid up ? — 

That frozen orb is death ! 

Why raises she the small pale hand, 

And holds it to the Hght ? 
There is no clear transparent hue 
1^ To meet her dizzy sight, 
i She holds the mirror to her lips 
To catch the moistened air : 
The widowed mother stands alone 
With her dead daughter there ! 



And yet so placid is the face, 

So sweet its lingering smile, 
That one might deem the sleep to be 

The maiden's playful wile. 
No pain the quiet limbs had racked. 

No sorrow dimmed the brow, 
So tranquil had the life gone forth, . 

She seemed but slumbering now. 

They laid her dow^n beside the brook 

Upon the sloping hill, 
And that strange bird with its rare note, 

Is singing o'er her still. 
The sunbeam warmer loves to rest 

Upon the heaving mound, 
And those unearthly blossoms spring. 

Uncultured from the ground. 

There Albert Linne, an altered man, 

Oft bowed in lowly prayer, 
And pondered o'er the mystic words 

Which Eva uttered there. 
That pure compassion, angel-like, 

\Vhich touched her soul when he, 
A guilty and heart-stricken man, 

Would from her presence flee ; 

Her sinless lips from earthly love, 

So tranquil and so free ; 
And the lo\^■, fervent prayer for him, 

She breathed on bended knee. 



As Eva's words and spirit sank 

More deeply in his heart, 
Young Albert Linne went forth to act 

The better human part. 

Oft in the stillness of the night 

Sweet Eva's dove-like eyes, 
Beamed through the darkness of his room, 

Like stars in dusky skies. 
Oft came a tranquil light diffused 

The darkness to beguile, 
And Albert felt within his heart, 

It was but Eva's smile. 

Not lost, his Eva, though her form 

The elements concealed. 
Within the chambers of the soul. 

Her meek form stood revealed ; 
And there he felt her heavenly eye, 

Her downy arms caressed. 
And like a living presence there. 

She stole into his breast 

Oh not alone did Albert strive ; 

For, blending with his own, 
In every voice of prayer or praise. 

Was heard young Eva's tone. 
He felt her lips upon his brow. 

Her angel form beside ; 
And nestling nearest to his heart. 

Was she — the spirit bride. 



90 THE SINLESS CHILD. 

The sinless Child, with mission high, 

Awhile to Earth was given, 
To show us that our world should be 

The vestibule of Heaven. 
Did we but in the holy light 

Of truth and goodness rise, 
We might communion hold with God 

And spirits from the skies. 



91 



NOTES 

TO THE SINLESS CHILD. 



(a) " There was neither hammer nor axe, nor 
any tool of iron, heard in the house while it was 
building."— 1 Kings, vi. 7. 

(b) It is a common belief among the vulgar, that 
a sigh always forces a drop of blood from the heart, 
and many curious stories are told to that effect ; 
as for instance, a man wishing to be rid of his wife, 
in order to marry one more attractive, promised 
her the gift of six new dresses, and sundry other 
articles of female finery, provided she would sigh 
three times every morning before breakfast, for 
three months. She complied, and before the time 
had expired, was in her grave. Many others of a 
like nature might be recorded. The old writers 
are full of allusions of a like kind, particularly I 
Shakspere, " blood-consuming sighs," &.c. 

(c) The worship of the Madonna is in the true 
spirit of poetry. She became to the Christian 
world what the Penates had been to the classical. 
In confining ourselves to the abstractions of reli- 
gion, we run the hazard of making it one of thought 
rather than of emotion. A woman must always 



92 NOTES. 



worship through her affections, and one may readily 
conceive the comfort which tlie household faith in 
the presence of the Madonna is likely to inspire. 

(d) We are indebted to the Aborigines for this 
beautiful superstition. The Indian believes that 
if the wekolis or whippoorwill alights upon the 
roof of his cabin and sings its sweet plaintive song, 
it portends death to one of its inmates. The omen 
is almost universally regarded in New England. 
The author recollects once hearing an elderly lady 
relate with singular pathos, an incident of the kind. 
She was blest with a son of rare endowments and I 
great piety. In the absence of his father lie was j 
wont to minister at the family altar ; and unlike 
the stern practices of the Pilgrims, from whose 
stock he was lineally descended, he prostrated 
himself in prater in the lowliest iuunility. It was 
touching to hear his clear low voice, and see his 
spiritual face while kneeling at this holy duty. 

One quiet moonlight niglit, while thus engaged, 
the mother's heart sank within her to hear the 
plaintive notes of the whippoorwill blending with 
the voice of prayer. It sat upon the roof and con- 
tinued its song long after the devotions had ceased. 
I The tears rushed to her eyes, and she embraced 
I her son in a transport of grief. She felt it must be 
ominous. In one week he was borne away, and 
^ the daisies grew and the birds sang over his grave. 

(e) I need not say that this is to illustrate the 
well-known superstition of the vulgar, that when 
a foot treads upon the spot that is to be our future 
resting-place in death, we feel a strange unaccoun- 
table sliiver. 



95 



SONNETS. 



THE poet's life, IN SIX SONNETS. 



P O E S T. 

With no fond, sickly thirst for fame, I kneel, 
Oh, goddess of the high-born art to thee ; 
Not unto thee with semblance of a zeal 
I come, oh, pure and heaven-eyed Poesy ! 
Thou art to me a spirit and a love, 
Felt ever from the time, when first the earth. 
In its green beauty, and the sky above 
Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth. 
I was a child of thine before my tongue 
Could lisp its infant utterance unto thee; 
And now, albeit from my harp are flung 
Discordant numbers, and the song may be 
That which I would not, yet I know that thoa 
The offering wilt not spurn, while thu8 to thee 
I bow. 



r" 



96 



n. 

i 

THE BAUD. 

It can not be, the baffled heart, in vain, 
May seek, amid the crowd, its throbs to hide ; 
Ten thousand others liindred pangs may bide, 
I Yet not the less will our own griefs complain. 
I Chained to our rock, the vulture's gory stain, 
I And tearing beak is every moment rife, 

Renewing pangs that end but with our life. 
I Thence bursteth forth the gushing voice of song, 
\ The soul's deep anguish thence an utterance 

finds, 
! Appealing to all hearts : and human minds 
j Bow down in awe: thence doth the Bard be- 
i long, 

I Unto all times : the laurel steeped in wrong 
Unsought is his : his soul demanded bread, 
And ye, charmed with the voice, gave but a 
stone instead. 



97 



in. 

THE UNATTAINED. 

And is this life ? and are we bom for this ? 
To follow phantoms that elude the grasp, 
Or whatsoe'er secured, within our clasp 
To withering lie, as if each earthly kiss 
Were doomed death's shuddering touch alone 

to meet. 
O Life ! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss ? 
Must still THE UNATTAINED beguile our feet? 
The UNATTAINED with yearnings fill the breast, 
That rob, for aye, the spirit of its rest ? 
Yes, this is Life ; and everywhere we meet, 
Not victor crowns, but waitings of defeat; 
Yet faint thou not, thou dost apply a test, 
That shall incite thee onward, upward still. 
The present can not sate, nor e'er thy spirit filL 



IV. 

HELIG-ION. 

Alone, yet not alone, the heart doth brood 
With a sad fondness o'er its hidden grief; 
Broods with a miser joy, wherein relief 
Comes with a semblance of its own quaint mood. 
How many hearts this point of life have passed! 
And some a train of light behind have cast. 
To show us what hath been, and what maybe; 
That thus have suffered all the wise and good, 
Thus wept and prayed, thus struggled and were 

free. 
So doth tlie pilot, trackless though the deep, 
Unswerving by the stars his reckoning keep, 
He moves a highway not untried before, 
And thence he courage gains, and joy doth reap, 
Unfaltering lays his course, and leaves behind 

the shore. 



A DREAM. 

I DREAMED last night, that I myself did lay 
Within the grave, and after stood and wept, 
My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept ! 
'T was a strange dream, and yet methinks it may 
Prefigure that which is akin to truth. 
How sorrow^ we o'er perished dreams of youth, 
High hopes and aspirations doomed to be 
Crushed and o'ermastered by earth's destiny ! j 
Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth ; — I 
And that deluding faith so loath to part, j 

That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart! I 
Oh, 'tis the ashes of such things that wring j 
Tears from the eyes — hopes like to these depart, j 
And ^ve bow down in dread o'ershadowed by I 
death' s-wing! 



100 



VI. 

AF INCIDENT. 

A SIMPLE thing, yet chancing as it did, 
When life was bright with its illusive dreams, 
A pledge and promise seemed beneath it hid ; 
The ocean lay before me, tinged with beams, 
That lingering draped the west ; a wavering stir, 
And at my feet down fell a worn, gray quill ; 
An eagle, high above the darkling fir, 
'With steady flight, seemed there to take his fill 
Of that pure ether breathed by him alone. 

! noble bird ! why didst thou loose for me 
Thy eagle plume ? still unessayed, unknown 
Must be that pathway fearless winged by thee ; 

1 ask it not, no lofty flight be mine, 

I would not soar like thee, in loneliness to pine ! 



101 



▼II. 

ERROR. 

A CHILD of thine, a wildered boy once lived 
In cottage rode beside the restless sea. 
A slip of land where scarcely even thrived 
The wildest plants, samphire and rosemary : 
Little was there to lure the steps aside, 
There the hoarse breaker and the heaving sand ; 
And yet I marked when inward swelled the tide, 
And the loud tempest surged upon the strand, 
Urging the shelterless to shelter nigh, 
The sea-bird beat his wing upon the cot 
And sank exhausted for the storm was high. 
Allured by that strange light he sought the spot 
With drenched wing, and found it but to die, 
And wildly through the night arose his lonely 
cry. 



"102 



MENTAL SOLITUDE. 

There is a solitude the mind creates, 
A solitude, of holy thought, profound — 
Alone, save there the " Soul's Ideal'" wails, 
It maketh to itself a hallowed ground. 
Lo ! the proud eagle when he highest soars, 
Leaves the dim earth and shadows far behind- 
Alone, the thunder cloud around him roars, 
And tlie reft pinion flutters in the wind — 
Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep, 
And the calm ether owns nor storm nor cloud- 
And thus the soul its upward way must keep, 
And leave behind the tempest ringing loud — 
Alone, to God bear up its heavy weight 
Of human hope and fear, nor feel " all desolate.' 



103 



DISTRUST. 

A REVERENT worshipper, oh, Truth ! of thee, 
I bow, with foot unsandalled, wheresoe'er 
Thy voice may whisper " holy ground is here." 
Amid uncertain paths, thy hght may be 
Dim to my wavering feet ; yet unto me, 
Intently waiting, once again, more clear, 
More tranquil, doth thy holy light appear, 
As minding me how dreary earth were left, 
A dark, bewildering waste of thee bereft. 
Should not thy temple be transparent, Truth? 
Should not thy undimmed altar-fires arise 
Brightest in human hearts ? In our first youth 
Unchecked we worship there, with fearless 

eyes ! 
Thou art not exiled thence, oh, spirit of the 

skies ! 



104 SONNETS. 



ILLUSTRATION OF A CAMEO:* 

The device a female figure writing, while an Angel feeds tlia 
Lamp. 

j Steal softly in, for she, who sitteth there, 
1 Pale in her watching, mindless of the night, 
1 Alone with that faint taper's gleaming light, 
I Thus findeth refuge from a world of care. 
Oh ! twine no chaplet for her brow ; no voice 
That tells of fame can make her heart rejoice ! 
She giveth form to visions of delight, 
That throng the simple hearth-stone, and the 
I soul 

j Alive to genial promptings, and would ask 
I Requitance of the same for her sweet task. 
And should a cadence born of sorrow roll 
Along a voice she may not all control, 
Yet not the less an angel lurketh nigh. 
To feed life's flickering lamp, and heavenward 
lift the eye. 



I * The Cameo was an anonymous gift from one 
I who professed a warm approval of the Sinless 
I Child, " who believed that this proof of womanly 
I recognition would not be displeasing to the 
Author." 



105 



THE RUSTIC. 

IN TWO SONNETS. 

Of tattered robe all recklessly the while 
She climbed the rugged hill with eager feet, 
Caught the first waking of the morning smile, 
And felt her heart with joyous wonder beat, 
As slowly past the mountain vapor swept, 
Lifting itself in fleecy folds away 
From lake, and stream, and grove, and vale, that 

slept 
Within its down, like weary child from play. 
j A lisping girl she was, yet fair withal, 
I Who with the buttercup and wild brook played, 

Till labor claimed her for his daily thrall; 
I And she, in kirtle short and gown arrayed, 
! Left far behind her home in that sweet dell. 
Blest with the hum of bees and song of whip- 
poorwill. 



106 



THE RUSTIC. 



Poor was the girl, yet still to grief unknown, 
Save when a jagged stone she rareless pressed, 
Or trod on humble-bee, withouten shoon, 
Or thorn projecting pierced her sun-burnt breast 
Or tore the i-inglels from her brow away, 
Which after lined the active robiu's nest, 

i Who sang for her a more melodious lay. 

I What though those tangled locks might half dis- 

I guise 

The speaking lusti'e of her soul-full eyes ! 
What though were darkly stained her childish 

brow; 
No inward pang its form of grace had riven ; 
And though its hue be fairer, softer, now, 
Oh, doth it turn as innocent to Heaven ! 
Doth it now bend in prayer as sure to be for- 
given ! 



107 



WATP ARBRS. 

" My Kingdom is not of this world." 

Earth careth for her own — the fox lies down 
In her warm bosoju, and it asks no more. 
The bird, content, broods in its lowly nest, 
Or its fine essence stirred, with wing outilown. 
Circles in airy rounds to heaven's own door, 
And folds again its plume upon her breast. 
Ye, too, for whom her palaces arise, 
Whose Tyrian vestments sweep the kindred 

ground, 
"Whose golden chalice Ivy-Bacchus dies, 
She, kindly Mother, liveth in your eyes. 
And no strange anguish may your lives astound. 
But ye, oh pale lone watchers for the true, 
She knoweth not. In Her ye have not found 
Place for your stricken heads, wet with the 

midnight dew. 



108 



TWILIGHT 

The rude and garish light, that all day long 
With half-oppressive gladness walked the earth, 
The bud to beauty forcing till it droops 
Athirst. o'er-fraught with life ; the bird of song, 
Made weary with its own exulting mirth : 
Now, softly o'er the vale and hill-side stoops 
To gather back its beams ; well-pleased to spread 
A downy mantle o'er the exhausted land. 
Swreet dew-distilling hour ! though joy be fled 
We mourn it not, thy balmings are so bland. 
Thus fadeth life to her by whom I kneel, 
Watching the pulse aweary of their play. 
Thus twilight fancies o'er her senses steal 
And life's unquiet visions fade away. 



SONNETS. 109 



TO THE OPAL. 

" The Opal is liable to spontaneous decomposition, becoming 
dnll, opaque, and adherent to the tongue." — CUavelatitL 

Oh, gem of beauty ! borrovsring from the day 
All hues to crown tiaee in thy fleeting grace, 
Why should a trace of sadness find a place, 
Where all is brilliant, beautiful, and gay ? 
Thy sister gems endure, but thou dost feel 
The touch of dissolution on thee steal, 
Wasting thy brightness in a slow decay. 
Thou art befitting type of human souls, 
That in the cold, the glittering, fleeting dwell ; 
Whose hopes the present fill, whom sense con- 
trols, 

! And earth binds down with strong delusive spell. 
Things that in use decay. Oh, dyings gem ! 
Passing though fair, burning thyself away, 

1 While we bewildered gaze, thy likeness is to 
them. 



DITTY. 

It was the custom of the ancients, to deck their poitals with 
garlands when they gave a feast. 

Guest after guest departs ! the heart that erst 
Se6med a bright portal all in garlands dressed, 
To which the rosy-crowned and joyous pressed, 
Findeth ere long that each a thorn had nursed 
With which to pierce the too unwary breast. 
Vainly we fold a mantle o'er each guest 
Willing to bide the thorn, if through it may 
A nobler gladness in the soul arise. 
Vainly we hope their footsteps to delay. 
They leave the pang and one by one depart, 
Till cold and desolate the portal lies. 
Yet not all desolate — a calm pale face 
Looks in, then enters the despoiled heart, 
And all is hushed and still, for Duty fills the place. 



Ill 



THE PILGRIM. 

" Some fell by the wayside." 

Not yet, not yet, oh, pilgrim ! cast aside 
The dusty sandal, and the well-worn staff; 
Athirst and fainting, yet must thou abide 
I One peril more, and strength in thy behalf 
j Shall once again be born — it is the last ! 

Thou sinkest by the lonely way side down, 
j And life o'er-spent, and weary, ebbeth fast — 
I The lengthening shadows on thy path are 
j thrown, 

j And thou wouMst rest, forgetful of life's dream, , 
; Deluding, vain, and empty, and here die. 
■ Not yet, not yet, there still is left one gleam j 
To onward lure thy too despairing eye : 
Gird on thy staff, the shrine is yet unwon, 
Oh, lose not then the prize, by this last work 
undone. 



112 



SYMPATHY. 



Oh, leave me not alone ! the monarch bird, 
Comes from his cloud-encompassed height again 
To listen where affection's voice is heard, 
" And stirreth up his nest ! " nor yet in vain ! 
The wing, that steadied upward in the noon- 
day sun, 
And spurned the tempest with a cold disdain, 
From Love alone that high empyrean won: 
Home-luring love, when that proud flight is done. 
Gently as dove he foldeth up the wing, 
And tames the fierceness of the burning eye, 
Where the loved one hath heard the ' 



nng 
Around the swaying pine, and deemed him nigh. 
Warm from the nest he takes his heavenward 

flight, 
For Love hath lent him wings to soar where all 

is bright. 



113 



SYMPATHY. 



Oh, leave me not alone ! dost thou but find 
A dying echo to thine own dear voice, 
Like that the zephyr- wing may leave behind, 
When music bids the desert rocks rejoice. 
Waking a sad low cadence, that when passed 
Makes but the solitude more heavy weigh? 
Yet stay ! be thou responsive to the last. 
To all, that this poor heart may rightly sway. 
What though each day a newborn grief dis- 
close. 
And clouds return, although the rain be o'er ; 
The cloud its fold of " silver lining" shows, 
Which hope reveals more brightly evermore. 
Oh, hush not thou this last impulsive thrill. 
Oh, leave me not alone, to silence, deathful, still. 



114 



XX. 

SELF BENITNCIATION. 

Shake thou thy spirit free ; first learn to feel 
That love doth bring its own exceeding good. 
Cry not the " give," this selfishness of mood, 
Will bind thee down with bands of tempered 

steel. 
Renounce thyself; from every loop-hole spurn 
The dustiness of care ; fresh as thy youth, 
Child-like as in thy primal years, oh, learn 
The meekness and the majesty of truth ! 
Thus unto thee shall light arise ; thy trust, 
Thy reverent lodgement of a holy guest, 
Shall bring a blessing to thee ; and the dust 
Of earthly care no more shall on thee rest. 
Thy love pure and eternal thus shall be 
Perchance to bloom on earth — most sure in 

heaven for thee. 



115 



TO THE HUDSON. 

I [The writer's first passage up the Hudson v/ais on a tran- 
' quil night at the close of summer, a clear moonshine making 
, the stars pale in the deep sky. Nothing could exceed the love- 
I Imess of the scene, as doubling point after point, the river at 
, each turn revealed a new aspect of beauty. It was no longer 
1 the majestic Hudson, sweeping its proud waters to the ocean, 
1 bearing a fleet upon its bosom, and making a grand highway for 
i v/ealth and luxury ; but a graceful, sentient creature, with an 
j onward purpose, gliding amid the hills and smiling as it over- 
\ came the obstacles in its path.] I 

j i 

I Oh! river, gently as a wayward child, ' 

! I saw thee 'mid the moonlight hills at rest; I 

I Capricious thing, with thine own beauty wild, I 
j How didst thou still the throbbings of thy breast ! j 
Rude headlands were about thee, stooping round j 
I As if amid the hills to hold thy stay ; ! 

I But thou didst hear the far-off ocean sound, ■ 
Inviting thee from hill and vale away, i 

To mingle thy deep waters with its own ; 
And, at that voice, thy steps did onward glide, 
Onward from echoing hill and valley lone. ; 

j Like thine, oh, be my course — nor turned aside, 
j While listing to the soundings of a land, 
! That like the ocean call invites me to its strand. 



116 



LIFE. 



SUSaifiSTED BY COLE S FOUR PAINTINGS BEP- 
RESENTING THE VOTA.GE OF LIFE. 

CHILDHOOD. 

Thou poet-painter, preacher of great truth, 
Far more suggestive thine than written tome — 
Lo, we return with thee to that vast dome, 
Dim cavern of the past. Visions uncouth, 
I Vague, rayless, all impalpable in sooth, 
I Send back the startled soul. The waters come 
I All tranquilly from that dim cavern forth, 
' The mystic tide of human life. A child, 
; Borne on its bosom, sports with blossoms wild. 
; A Presence, felt, but still unseen, the boat 
With gentle hand guides onward, and beguiled 
With music lost in other years, they float 
Upon the stream. The hours unfelt, for life 
j Is joy in its first voyage, with light and blossoms 
1 rife. 



117 



YOUTH. 

Alas, the Spirit lingers, but its hand 
No more the barque sustains. The daring youth 
Has seized the helm, and deeper launches forth. 
His eye amid illusions of ideal land — 
Bright castles built in air, that seem to stand, 
Though still receding — while from rosy bowers 
Each laurel-crowned appears, Fame, Glory, 

Worth. 
He sports no more mid blossoms of green earth ; 
He hears no more the music of his birth ; 
The future lares him, pinnacles and tow^ers. 
And half he chides the lagging of the hours, 
Unheeds their sunshine, blessedness, and mirth ; 
Tor onward is his course, he asks not where. 
Since fancy paints the prospect passing fair. 



118 



MANHOOD. 

Still onward goes the barque — the tide 
Bears it along where breakers foam and roar, 
And oaks unbending, riven, line the shore ; 
Dense vapors rising, all the future hide ; 
And how shall he that fearful peril bide? 
The guiding helm he eager grasjjs no more ; 
Time weighs the prow, the wave is deep beside; 
Swift flows the current, fierce the gathering 

strife, 
The struggle and the buffetings of life. 
Half he recoils, yet calmly bides the test, 
With hands clasped firmly on the unconquered 

breast ; 
Nor meets alone that hour with peril rife ; 
Forth from on high the guardian Spirit bends 
With ministry of love, and holy valor sends. 



119 



OLD AG-E. 

Thy mission is accomplished — painter — sage, 

Look to thy crown of glory — ^for thy brow 

Is circled with its radiant halo now. 

No more earth's turmoil will thy soul engage, 

Its hopes unquiet, littleness, or rage. 

With thine own voyager thou hast heard the 

sound 
Of that vast ocean, waveless, rayless, dread, 
Where time's perpetual tribute, circling round, 
Drops silent in, all passionless and dead. 
When thine own voyage is o'er, and thou shalt 

near 
The eternal wave, thus, thus above thy head 
May opening glories shield thy heart from fear ; 
A child again, but strong in faith and prayer, 
Thoa shalt look meekly up — ^behold thy CK>d is 

there ! 



120 



LIFE-LONG MARTYRDOM. 



" Wherefore is light given to him that b in misery, and life un- 
to the bitter in soul? " — Job. 

God shield us in our weakness ! I had said 
To meet the fagot or the blade — to die 
For that accounted holy, for the truth, 
Were but a festal doom — a tribute paid 
By the poor outward form, that it may lie 
A slave, and not a master of the soul. 
j But, harder far to bear a hfe-long test; 

To feel the weight of wrong in epring-time 
! youth, 

i Crushed heavier down as lagging winters roll ; 
! Benumbing thought and feeling in the breast, 
j While selfishness and callous discontent 
I BHght all the aspect of God's blessed earth, 
I And tear from out our soul, that which He lent, 
Its freshness, homage, freedomness of birth. 



121 



CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. 

" WTiere is thy brother?" 

Think better of thy fellows — ye who dare 
Stop the warm current of a brother's heart; 
'Tis not to mark the death-damp of his fear 
And mortal agony, when ye shall part 
The soul from its strong tenement — not this — 
Not this doth call them from their secret ways, 
From haunts of crime, and nature's seats of bliss, 
Toil-wora and travel-stained for many days : 
No ! even we, in chambers pent, like them, 
ITeel the wild anguish of a fellow's pang — 
The pleading of a pulse, which ye condemn, 
That calls us forth as if a bugle rang. 
The wronger is the wronged, such impulse lies 
In every human heart when tkus a brother dies. 



122 SONNETS. 



ATHEISM,* 

IN THREE SONNETS. 

xxvm. 

FAITH. 

" They which shall be accounted toorthi/ to obtain that worU, 
and the reBurrection of the deAd."—Jtnu. 

Beware of doubt — faith is the subtle chain, 
Which binds us to the Infinite : the voice 
Of a deep life within, that will reoaain 
Until we crowd it thence. We may rejoice 

* I have not found it possible to convey the idea as 
clearly as I could wish, in these Sonnets. I have 
sometimes thought that the very construction of the 
soul, so to speak, rendered it impossible for a man to 
be an Atheist. Farther thought leads to a behef that 
a state of Atheism may exist ; but that in proportion 
as the doubt of a Deity is suffered to make its way 
into the soul, it destroys it, not morally, but in fact ; 
and when a man announces his disbelief in a God, 
he announces his own annihilation of soul. He 
has lost the last link that binds him to the spiritual 
world ; he is as a beast, which can think, but not 
adore. 



123 



With an exceeding joy, and make our life, 

Ay, this external life, become a part 

Of that which is within, o'erwrought and rife 

With faith, that childlike blessedness of heart. 

The order and the harmony inborn 

With a perpetual hymning crown our way, 

Till callousness, and selfishness, and scorn. 

Shall pass as clouds where scatheless lightnings 

play. 
Cling to thy faith, 'tis higher than the thought 
That questions of thy faith, the cold external 

doubt. 



124 



XXIX. 

R E A S O N. 



" For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall 
have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken 
away even that which he hath." — Jesus. 



The Infinite speaks in our silent hearts 
And draws our being to Himself, as deep 
Calieth anto deep. He, who all thought im- 
parts, 
Demands the pledge, the bond of soul to keep : 
But reason, wandering from its fount afar, 
And stooping downward, breaks the subtle 

chain 
That binds it to itself, like star to star, 
And sun to sun, upward to God again : 
Doubt, once confirmed, tolls the dead spirit's 

knell, 
And man is but a clod of earth, to die 
Like the poor beast that in his shambles fell — 
More miserable doom, than that to lie 
In trembling torture, like believing ghosts 
Who, though divorced from good, bow to the 
Lord of Hosts. 



XXX. 

A IT N I H I L A T I O N 



"What is a man profited, if he gain the whole world, and 
lose his own soul ?" — Jesits. 



Doubt, Cypress crowned, upon a ruined arch 
Amid the shapely temple overthrown, 
Exultant, stays at length her onward march. 
Her victim, all with earthliness o'ergrown, 
Hath sunk himself to earth to perish there; 
His thoughts are outward, all his love a blight, 
Dying, deluding are his hopes though fair — 
And death, the spirit's everlasting night. 
Thus, midnight travellers, on some mountain 

steep. 
Hear far above the avalanche boom down. 
Starting the glacier echoes from their sleep. 
And lost in glens to human foot unknown — 
The death-plunge of the lost come to their ear, 
And silence claims again her region cold and 

drear. 



126 THE ACORN. 



THE ACORN. 

" If there be an interpreter, one among a thousand." — Job. 

Long years ago, when our headlands broke 

The silent wave below, 
And bird-song then the morn awoke 

Where to-wers a city now — 
When the red man saw on every cliff, 

Half seen and half in shade, 
A tiny form, or a pearly skiff, 

That sought the forest glade. 

An acorn fell from an old oak tree, 

And lay on the frosty ground — 
" Oh, what shall the fate of the acorn be !" 

Was whispered all around, 
By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, 

Like a floweret's bell when swung — 
And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, 

And the beetle's hoofs up-rung — 



THE ACORN. 127 



For Puck-wud-jees* came careering past 

In the pale autumnal ray, 
Where the forest leaves were falling fast, 

And the acorn quivering lay; 



* " Puck-wudj-ininees— literally, little vanishers, 
or little wild men of the mountains [and which 
we have abbreviated into something a little more 
pronounceable], were beheved by the Indians to in- 
habit rocky craigs and dells, frequenting the pina- 
cles of cliffs, and delighting in romantic glens, and 
points of land upon lakes, rivers, and bays ; espe- 
cially if crowned with pine trees. The Algonquins 
describe them as flitting among thickets, vanishing, 
and reappearing and running with a whoop up the 
mountains. Puck-pa-wis, their leader, carries a 
magic shell, or tosses a ball before him." — 

Schoolcraft. 
It is a curious fact, that the word " Puck," which 
has been thought so Shaksperian, and which has 
puzzled so many commentators upon the great 
dramatist, is a generic term in the Algonquin dia- 
lect. It requires no very great stretch of fancy to 
suppose that the ready ear of Shakspere caught the 
peculiar and most daintily appropriate term from 
the relations of those accomplished navigators, 
I with whom he was undoubtedly familiar, and who, 
according to Gallatin and other researchers, had 
been for more than thirty years before the death of 
the great poet, intimately acquainted with that part 
of the coast where the Algonquin dialect was 
spoken, and had even attempted to colonize so 
early as 1585, on the coast of North Carolina, at 
the small island of Roanoke, which, as elsewhere 
on the coast, was inhabited by the Algonquin tribes. 



128 THE ACORN. 



They came to tell what its fate should be, 
Though life was unrevealed ; 

For life is a holy mysteiy. 
Where'er it is concealed. 



They came with gifts that should life bestow ; 

The dew and the living air — 
The bane that should work it deadly wo, 

The little-men had there ; 
In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought, 

The \vorm, in a rose-leaf rolled. 
And many things with destruction fraught, 

That its doom were quickly told. 



But it needed not , for a blessed fate 

Was the acorn's meant to be — 
. The spirits of earth should its birth-time wait. 

And watch o'er its destiny. 
To HIM OF THE SHELL* was the task assigned 

To bury the acorn deep, 
Away from the fro.st and searching wind. 

When they through the forest sweep. 

'T was a dainty sight, the small thing's toil. 

As bowed beneath the spade, 
He balanced his gossamer wings the while 



* " You shall be called Wa-dais-dis-imid, or he 
of the little shell."— Schoolcraft. 



THE ACORN. 129 



A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep, 
When the spade aside he threw, 

And rolled the acorn away to sleep 
In the hush of dropping dew. 

The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, 

And gush of woodland song ; 
The dew came down, the rain was there, 

And the sunshine rested long ; 
Then softly the black earth turned aside, 

The old leaf arching o'er, 
And up, where the last year's leaf was dried. 

Came the acorn-shell once more. 

With coiled stem, and pale green hue, 

It looked but a feeble thing ; 
Then deeply its root abroad it threw, 

Strength from the earth to bring. 
The woodland sprites are gathering round, 

Rejoiced that the task is done — 
That another life from the noisome ground 

Is up to the pleasant sun. 

The young child passed with a careless tread, 

And the germ had well-nigh crushed, 
But a spider, launched on her airy thread, 

The cheek of the stripling brushed. 
He little knew, as he started back. 

How the acorn's fate was hung 
On the very point in the spider's track, 

Where the web on his cheek was flung. 



j 130 THE ACORN. 

I The autumn came, — it stood alone, 

! And bowed as the wind passed by — 

' The \viad that uttered its dirge-like moan 

I 111 the old oak sere and dry; 

i The hollow branches creaked and swayed 

\ But they bent not to the blast, 

For the stout oak tree, where centuries played 
' Was sturdy to the last. 

I But the sapling had no strength as yet 

! Such peril to abide, 

' And a thousand guards were round it set 

I To evil turn aside. 

j A hunter boy beheld the shoot, 

I And an idle prompting grew 

I To sever the stalk from the spreading root, 

! And his k)iife at once he drew. 

His hand was stayed ; he knew not why : 
'Twas a presence breathed around — • 

A pleading from the deep-blue sky, 
And up from the teeming ground. 

It told of the care that had lavished been 
In sunshine and in dew — 

Of the many things that had wrought a screen, 
' When peril around it grew. 

i It told of the oak that once had bowed, 
i As feeble a thing to see, 
I But now, when the storm was raging loud, 
j It wrestled mightily. 

I. 



THE ACORN. 131 



There 's a deeper thought on the hunter's brow, 

A new love at his heart, 
And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow, 

He turns him to depart. 

Up grew the twig with a vigor bold, 

In the shape of the parent tree, 
And the old oak knew that his doom was told, 

When the sapling sprang so free. 
Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore 

The hollow limbs away ; 
And the damp moss crept from the earthy floor 

Round the trunk, time-worn and gray. 

The young oak grew, and proudly grew, 

For its roots were deep and strong ; 
And a shadow broad on the earth it threw, 

And the sunshine lingered long 
On its glossy leaf, where the flickering light 

Was flang to the evening sky ; 
And the wild bird sought to its airy height, 

And taught her young to fly. 

In acorn-time came the truant boy, 

With a wild and eager look, 
And he marked the tree with a wondering joy, 

As the wind the great limbs shook. 
He looked where the moss on the north side 
grew, 

The gnarled arms outspread, 
The solemn shadow the huge tree threw, 

As it towered above his head : 



332 THE ACORN. 



And vague-like fears the boy surround, 

In the shadow of that tree ; 
So growing up from the darksome ground, 

Like a giaut mystery. 
His heart beats quick to the squirrel's tread 

On the withered leaf and dry, 
And he lifts not up his awe-struck head 

As the eddying wind sweeps by. 

All regally the stout oak stood, 

In its vigor and its pride ; 
A monarch owned in the solemn wood, 

With a sceptre spreading wide — 
No more in the wintry blast to bow, 

Or rock in the summer breeze. 
But draped in green, or star-like snow. 

Reign king of the forest trees. 

A thousand years it firmly grew, 

A thousand blasts defied. 
And, mighty in strength, its broad arms threw 

A shadow dense and wide. 
Change came to the mighty things of earth — i 

Old empires passed away ; I 

Of the generations that had birth, I 

O Death ! where, where are they ? I 

Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood, 

Nor dreamed it of decay, j 

Though a thousand times in the autumn wood j 

Its leaves on the pale earth lay. i 



I It grew where the rocks were bursting out 
i From the thiu and heaving soil — 
I Where the ocean's roar, and the sailor's shout, 
Were mingled in wild turmoil — 

Where the far-off sound of the restless deep 
Came up with a booming swell ; 
I And the white foam dashed to the rocky steep, 
I But it loved the tumult well. 
Then its huge limbs creaked in the midnight air, 

And joined in the rude uproar : 
For it loved the storm and the lightning's glare, 
And the wave-lashed iron shore. 



The bleaching bones of the seabird's prey 

Were heaped on the rocks below ; 
And the bald-head eagle, fierce and gray, 

Looked off from its topmost bough. 
Where the shadow lay on the quiet wave 

The light boat often swung, 
And the stout ship, saved from the ocean grave, 

Her cable round it flung. 

A sound comes down in the forest trees, 

An echoing from the hill ; 
It floats far off on the summer breeze, 

And the shore resounds it shrill. 
Lo ! the monarch tree no more shall stand 

Like a watch-tower of the main — 
A giant mark of a giant land 

That may not come again. 



134 THE ACORN. 

The stoat old oak ! — 'T was a worthy tree, 

And the builder marked it out ; 
He smiled its angled limbs to see, 

As he measured the trunk about. 
Already to him was a gallant bark 

Careering the rolling deep, 
And in sunshine, calm, or tempest dark, 

Her way she will proudly keep. 

The chisel clicks, and the hammer rings, — 

The merry jest goes round ; 
While he who longest and loudest sings 

Is the stoutest workman found. 
With jointed rib and trunnelled* plank 

The work goes gayly on, 
And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they 
drank, 

Are heard till the task is done. 



I She sits on the stocks, the skeleton ship, 
1 With her oaken ribs all bare, 
I And the child looks up with parted lip, 
i As it gathers fuel there — 
! With brimless hat. the barefoot boy | 

I Looks round with strange amaze, I 

And dreams of a sailor's hfe of joy 
Are mingling in that gaze. | 

* An "Ancient Mariner" tells me this is properly I 
tree-nail, being bolts of wood by which the timbers 
are secured. 



{ THE ACORN. 135 

j With graceful waist and carvings brave 
1 The trim hull waits the sea — j 

She proudly stoops to the crested wave, I 

While round go the cheerings three. 
Her prow swells up from the yesty deep, 
Where it plunged in foam and spray ; 
And the glad waves gathering round her sweep ' 
And buoy her in their play. 

Thou wert nobly reared, oh, heart of oak ! j 

In the sound of the ocean roar, 
Where the surging wave o'er the rough rock 
broke. I 

And bellowed along the shore — j 

And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice, I 

With the wind through spar and shroud, I 

To hear a sound like the forest voice, j 

W"hen the blast was raging loud ! j 

With snow-white sail, and streamer gay. 

She sits like an ocean-sprite. 
Careering on her.trackless way, 

In sunshine or midnight : 
Her course is laid with fearless skill. 

For brave hearts luan the helm ; 
And the joyous winds her canvass fill — 

Shall the wave the stout ship whelm ? i 

On, on she goes, where icebergs roll. 

Like floating cities by ; I 

Where meteors flash by the northern pole, i 

And the merry dancers fly ; j 



136 THE ACORN. 



Where the glittering light is backward flung 

From icy tower and dome, 
And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung 

With gems from the ocean foam. 

On the Birman sea was her shadow cast, 

As it lay like molten gold, 
And her pendent shroud and towering mast 

Seemed twice on the waters told. 
The idle canvass slowly swung 

As the spicy breeze went by, 
And strange, rare music around her rung 

Prom the palm-tree growing nigh. 

Oh, gallant ship, thou didst bear with thee 

The gay and the breaking heart, 
And weeping eyes looked out to see 

Thy white-spread sails depart. 
And when the rattling casement told 

Of many a perilled ship. 
The anxious wife her babes would fold, 

And pray with trembling lip. 

The petrel wheeled in her stormy flight, 

The wind piped shrill and high; 
On the topmast sat a pale blue light, 

That flickered not to the eye : 
The black cloud came like a banner down, 

And down came the shrieking blast ; 
The quivering ship on her beams is thrown, 

And gone are helm and mast. 



I THE ACORN. 137 

Helmless, but on before the gale, 

She ploughs the deep-troughed wave ; 
: A gurgling sound — a phrensied wail — 
I And the ship hath found a grave. 
: And thus is the fate of the acorn told. 
Which fell from the old oak tree, 
And He of the shell in the frosty mould 
Preserved for its destiny. 



]38 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE APRIL RAIN. 

The April rain — the April rain — 

I hear the pleasant sound ; 
Now soft and still, like little dew, 

Now drenching all the ground. 
Pray tell me why an April shower 

Is pleasanter to see 
Than falling drops of other rain ? 

I 'm sure it is to me, — 



I w^onder if 'tis really so — 

Or only hope the while, 
That tells of swelling buds and flowers, 

And summer's coming smile. 
Whate'er it is, the April shower 

Makes me a child again ; 
I feel a rush of youthful blood 

Come with the April rain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 139 



And sure, were I a little bulb 

Witbin tbe darksome ground, 
I should love to hear the April rain 

So gently falling round ; 
Or any tiny flower were I, 

By nature swaddled up. 
How pleasantly the April shower 

Would bathe my hidden cup. 

The small brown seed, that rattled down 

On the cold autumnal eai'th, 
Is bursting from its cerements forth, 

Rejoicing in its birth. 
The slender spears of pale green grass 

Are smiling in the light. 
The clover opes its folded leaves 

As if it felt delight. 

The robin sings on the leafless tree, 

And upward turns his eye, 
As loving much to see the drops 

Come filtering from the eky — 
No doubt he longs the bright green leaves 

About his home to see, 
And feel the swaying summer winds 

Play in the full-robed tree. 

The cottage door is open wide, 
And cheerful sounds are heard ; 

The young girl sings at the merry wheel 
A song like the wilding bird ; 



140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The creeping^ child by the old worn sill 
Peers out with winking eye, 

And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand, 
As the drops come pattering by. 

With bounding heart beneath the sky, 

The truant boy is out, 
And hoop and ball are darting by 

With many a merry shout — 
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng, 

For yours is the April day ; 
I love to see your spirits dance 

In your pure and healthful play. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 141 



THE WATER. 

How beautiful the water is ! 

Didst ever think of it, 
When down it tumbles from the skies, 

As in a meiTy fit ? 
It jostles, ringing as it falls, 

On all that's in its way — 
I hear it dancing on the roof, 

Like some wild thing at play. 

'Tis rushing now adown the spout 

And gushing out below, 
Half frantic in its joyousness. 

And wild in eager flow. 
The earth is dried and parched with heat, 

And it hath longed to be 
Released from out the selfish cload, 

To cool the thirsty tree. 

It washes, rather rudely too, 

The floweret's simple grace, 
As if to chid^ the pretty thing' 

For dust upon its face. 



I 

142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

It showers the tree till every leaf 

Is free from dust or stain, 
Then waits till leaf and branch are stilled, 

And showers them o'er again. 

Drop after drop is tinkling- down, 

To kiss the stirring brook, 
The water dimples from beneath 

With its own joyous look ; 
And then the kindred drops embrace, 

And singing on they go, 
To dance beneath the willow-tree. 

And glad the vale below. 

How beautiful the water is ! 

It loves to come at night, 
To make us wonder in the morn 

To find the earth so bright ; 
To see a youthful gloss is spread 

On every shrub and tree, 
And flowerets breathing on the air 

Their odors pure and free. 

A dainty thing the water is. 

It loves the blossom's cup, 
To nestle 'mid the odors there, 

And fill the petals up ; 
It hangs its gems on every leaf, 

Like diamonds in the sun ; 
And then the water wins the smile 

The floweret should have won. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



143 



How beautiful the water is ! 

To rae 'tis wondrous fair — 
No spot can ever lonely be, 

If water sparkle tliere — 
It hath a thousand tongues of mirth, 

Of grandeur, or delight ; 
And every heart is gladder made 

When water greets the sight 



144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE PARK FOUNTAIN. 

Snowy fountain upward gushing 

Like a spirit birth of glee, 
From thy cold, dark pathway rushing* 

Thus rejoicing to be free ; 
On my cheek thy spray is falling, 

Rock, and dell, and songful bird, 
Echoes on each other calling, 

In thy melody are heard. 

Thou dost owe thy birth, O, fountain, 

Far aw^ay by wood and dale, 
Silver streamlets from the°mountain 

Steal to thee in lonely vale ; 
Still amid thy falling water, 

Mirrored in thy crystal sheen, 
Frolic wood-nymphs, wild with laughter. 

Lured by thee from woodland green. 

* The Croton water is brought to the city of New 
York through pipes, from a distance of forty miles. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 

Home of light and glory leaving 

For a pathway dim and drear, 
Straggling, hoping, inly grieving, 

Thou rejoicest to be here ; 
Yet a sorrow mingleth ever 

With the joy that set thee free ; 
Thou art falling, fountain, never 

Shall thy hope be given thee ! 

Thus through darkness, doubt, and sorrow, 

Struggling in oar pathway on. 
Hoping brighter things to-morrow, 

Sorrowing when the goal is won ; 
Thus like thee, do we, O fountain, 

Half in memory of the past. 
Look once more for bower and mountain, 

Visions bright, too bright to last. 

Thus like thee are upward mounting, 

Hopes for earth too fair and bright ; 
Perished hopes the hours are counting 

With a promise of delight ; 
Yet we give them kindly greeting, 

Till the heart itself be riven — 
Visions fond, and frail, and fleeting, 

Bathed like thee in hues of heaven. 



10 



146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE LAST SHOT. 



" The Prince liad never been known to fail of his aim ; he raised 
his bow, and a beautiful bird feil bleeding to tlie earth, which ut- 
tered at the same time the mournful words, ' Why did you aim 
at me sitting.' "—Arabian Nig/Uf. 



An archer who ne'er drew his bow 

Except at bird upon the wing, 
Once bent it at the dancing spray, 

Where lurked a bird but born to sing ! 
The flutter 'mid the glancing boughs, 

The herd of vagrant shooters near, 
Misled the veteran of the field. 

Who thought his wonted quarry here ! 

And even when the songster fell 

Wounded before his very eyea, 
Still, still confused the archer gazed 

In feeling half, and half surprise ; 
The stricken bird might beat its wing, 

From pain that he of all would rue — 
How could he trace its radiant plume. 

Flitting amid that common crew ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 147 

A note — a throb — a gush of song ! 

" That wildwood music ! God of grace! 
'Tis heaven's own warbl* that I hear — 

The spirit-song my soul would trace !" 
Half-cursed, half-blessed he then the aim, 

"Which wounded, but still spared the bird ; 
Cursed, that he blindly thus should shoot, 

But, weeping, blessed the song he heard. 

And rapt by that pure epirit-strain. 

Away from all that charmed before. 
He knelt upon his shattered bow, 

And vowed that he would shoot no more. 
That bird, fresh plumed, with vigorous wing, 

More rich in melody they say. 
To him in greenwood bower v/ill sing, 

Who loves to list the live-long day. 



"THOU HAST LOVED." 

Dearest, in thine eye's deep light 

Is a look to tears allied — 
Sorrow struggling with delight, 

Each the other seeks to hide ; 
Thou, the freighted ark of life 

Lonely floating on the sea, 
With thy being's treasure rife — 

Thou hast wearied thus to be. 



Thou hast sent thy dove from thee — 

Forth hast launched thy dove of peace, 
And the branch, though green it be, 

Can it bid thy doubtings cease ? 
Though it speak of hope the while, 

Verdant spots and sunny bowers, 
Can it bring thee back the smile 

That beguiled thy vacant hours ? 

Take thy dove and fold its wing — 
Fold the ruiBed wing to rest : 

Deluge airs around it ring : 
Let it nestle on thy breast 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Dearest, all thy care is vain — 

Mark its trembling, weary wings ; 

Bat it comes to thee again, 
And an olive branch it brings. 

Take it, bind it unto thee, 

Though the leaves are dim with tears; 
Such thy woman lot must be — 

Love and sorrow, hopes and fears. 
Bind the branch of promise ever 

To thy heart, with fear oppressed, 
Let the leaves of hope, oh ! never. 

Withered, leave their place of rest. 



150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



PRESAGES. 

There are who from their cradle bear 

The impress of a grief — 
Deep, mystic eyes, and forehead fair, 

And looks that ask relief; 
The shadows of a coming doom, 

Of sorrow and of strife, 
When Fates conflicting round the loom, 

Wove the sad web of life. 

And others come, the gladsome ones, 

All shadowless and gay. 
Like sweet surprise of April suns. 

Or music gone astray ; 
Arrested, half in doubt we turn 

To catch another sight. 
So strangely rare it is to learn 

A presage of delight. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE LOVE OE LADY ANN. 

In her bower the lady Ann 

"Wept her love apart, 
" Why so much of pride, ladye, 

With a loving heart ! 

Broad and fertile are thy lands. 

Stately is thy hall, 
But a faithful heart, ladye, 

Far outweighs them all. 

Thou mayst choose thy gilded bower, 

Nursing grief within, 
And thy lover will forget 

Love he failed to win. 

Thou mayst sit in gilded bower, 

I the free woods roam ; 
Never should a lingering bride 

Share with me a home. 



152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Truth of heart and strength of arm, 

These I bring to thee ; 
But thy pride hath spurned the gift- 

f are-thee-well, ladye." 

On the latchet is his glaive, 
Scarce he deigns a sigh ; 

But the maiden's gushing tears 
Tremble in her eye. 

In the stirrup is his foot — 

Thus do lovers part — 
He to bear his pride alone, 

She a breaking heart. 

Trembling, doubtful, Lady Ann, 

Half in fear arose -, 
Then with beating lieart she sped, 

And her arms she throws, 

Clasping him with wild embrace, 

Pride and home forgot. 
She liath left her stately towers 

For a lowly lot. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 153 



CHILDHOOD'S LAUGH. 

A L ATJGH ! a brimming langh of joy — from child- 
hood's hp it peals, 

And every ear on which it falls, a thrill of rapture 
feels — 

Stem brows relax, and lips will curl, with some- 
thing like a smile. 

Although the cause of that wild muth be all 
unknown the while. 

For there is something in the glee, the laughing 

of a child, 
That Bpeaks to e'en the coldest heart, it rings 

so free and wild ; 
'Tis like the music of a bird, that hath no tone 

of care. 
But poureth its exceeding joy upon the summer 

air. 

'Tis like the odorous breath exhaled from out 

the dewy flower, 
That telleth of a quiet bliss in every sunlight 

hour — 



154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Or like the insects' ceaseless hum from grove or 

verdant spot, 
Where they are telling all day long then* joy- 
ahounding lot. 

It is a free, a guileless laugh, that brings a pang 
to none — 

And wellelh from a crystal heart, that hath no 
sorrow known — 

And wheresoe'er that laugh shall fall, it will a 
dream restore 

Of by-gone glee, and careless mirth, and child- 
hood's days once more. 

Up springing by the dusty way, rise many a joy- 
ous group — 

The kite soars high, the ball rebounds, and darts 
the merry hoop — 

The woods re-echo once again, to boyhood's 
noisy glee. 

And tiny mills beside the brook are turning rap- 
idly. 

And by-gone pranks, forgotten long, return till 
each has smiled, 

To think how very smart he was, and witty 
when a child — 

And retrospective sighs are heaved, so sadly 
boys have changed 

Since they along the forest way, or by the sea- 
shore ranged. 



1 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 155 

I .. 

I The gay child's laugh is everywhere, and sad 

I indeed were earth, 

I If never on the weary ear came childhood's 

j voice of mirth. 

; Oh ! were that hushed, a murky gloom on ev- 

I erything would rest, 

j And heavy press the weight of care upon the 

! human breast. 



Then never check that sinless joy, but freely let 

_ it swell, 
For 'mid the pleasant sounds of earth this works 

the holiest spell — 
It tells of hours of innocence, when love and 

trust were given. 
And it may whisper yet again the words of peace 
and heaven. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE CHILD AND THE KOSE. 



Whev stirring bud and songful bird 
Brought gladness to the earth, 

And spring-time voices first were heard 
In low, sweet sounds of mirth; 

A little child, with pleasant eyes, 
Reclined in tranquil thought. 

And, half-communing with the skies, 
His pretty fancies wrought. 

He turned where cased in robe of green 

A rosebud met his eye — 
And one faint streak the leaves between, 

Rich in its crimson dye. 

The warm light gathereth in the sky — 
The bland air stiireth round — 

And yet the child is lingering by, 
Haif-kneeling on the ground : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 157 



Per broader grew that crimson streak, 
Back folds the leaf of green — 

And he in wonder still and meek 
W atched all its opening sheen. 

" 'Tis done, 'tis done !" at length he cried, 
With glad amazement wild — 

The rose, in new-created pride, 
Had opened for the child. 

Oh ! had we hearts like thine, sweet boy, 

To watcli creative power, 
We too should thrill with kindred joy 

At every opening flower. 



158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



TO A BABE. 

Precious baby, rest thee here, 

Nestle thus about my heart : 
Child, devoid of guilt and fear, 

What a mystery thou art ! 
'Tis a pleasure, little one, 

On thy sinless brow to look; 
Life to do, and nothing done — 

Nothing written in thy book ! 

Link art thou 'twixt me and heaven; 

Blessed ministry is thine ; 
Unto thee a power is given 

To renew this heart of mine — 
Childhood's fearless love renew — 

Childhood's truth and holy trust ; 
And of youth bring back the dew, 

Lift the spirit from the dust. 

Mothers may not know on earth, 
Half the deep and holy spell 

Wrought by infant tears and mirth, 
Meanings strange that few may tell. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 159 

Deeper grows the mother's eye 
"With its look of love and prayer — 

Holiest duty, promptings high 
Mingle with maternal care. 

Careless thou as blossoms wild 

Growing in the light of heaven ; 
Thou, a meek and trusting child, 

Faith like theirs to thee is given : 
And for thee I will not fear 

In the perils that await — 
Thought and will, the prayer, the tear, 

Arm thee strong for any fate. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE CHILD'S BENEDICTION. 

I KNEW it not, sweet child, or I 
Had smothered that desponding sigh, 

For it hath checked tliy joyous song; 
Thine eye with tears it tilleth now, 
A shadow restetli on thy brow — 

My child, my child, I did thee wrong ! 

What dost thou whisper in mine ear ? 
Sweet words " God bless thee, mother dear! ' 

My own fond one, thou art to me 
A hope, a blessing, and a guide — 
No more shall doubt and fear abide ; 

I 'U meekly learn my faith of thee. 

" God bless thee !" gentle words and kind, 
The offspring of a trusting mind — 

They bear a pledge, when lips like thine, 
Forgetting childhood's random speech, 
Do thus a higher lesson teach, 

And mystic words like these combine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 161 



God shield thee, for a heart like thine, 
Where truth and tenderness combine, 

Alas ! is doomed too much to know 
Of sympathies all vainly spent — 
Of love to blinding v/orship lent — 

And all life's strange and hidden wo. 

God shield thee, my poor, gentle hoy ! 
Would that the cup of life and joy. 

Dashed from thy mother's lips away, 
Might with thine own of fate be blended, 
And all the ill for thee intended. 

Upon her bosom only prey. 



162 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



LOVE SHELTERED. 

" Love came to ray window one day." 

A BIRD, escaped the fowler's snare, 
Sought refuge in my breast — 

Alas ! too fondly cherished there, 
It robbed me of my rest. 

Awhile its ruffled wing it drest, 
Content it seemed awhile — 

Close to my throbbing bosom prest, 
I never dreamed of guile. 

I never dreamed my sheltered dove 
Would weary of its home, 

That it would seek another love, 
And from my bosom roam. 

I felt it struggling in my hand — 

It struggled to be free ; 
I tighter drew the silken band 

That bound it unto me. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Alas ! how drooped the joyous thing ; 

Its sorrow touched my heart — 
I loosed the bond — it poised its wing; 

How could my dove depart ? 

How leave a trusting heart to pine, 

In solitude and pain ! 
Oh bird, new perils will be thine ; 

Come to my breast again. 




164 KISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE G-TJARDIAN" ANQEL. 



ILLUSTRATION OF BRACKETT'S ANGEL WATCH- 
ING THE SLEEPING CHILD. 

Child of earth, and child of heaven ! 

Each alike in form and face, 
Save that wings to one is given — 

Something too of loftier grace. 

Yet the trustful and the true 

Dwell in meekness with the other — 

These alone it was that drew 
Prom the skies its angel brother. 

Half in blindness, half in trust, 
Guardian arms around him prest, 

Sleeps the child of time and dust, 
Sliielded by his cherub guest. 

Angel-child! and child of earth ! 

Semblance ye of hidden things; 
One hath reached its spirit-birth — 

One but waiteth for its wings. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 



THE FIRST LEAF OF AUTUMN. 

I SEE thee fall, thou quivering leaf, of faint and 
yellow hue. 

The first to feel the autumn winds, that, blight- 
ing, o'er thee blew — 

Slow-parted from the rocking branch, I see thee 
floating by, 
' To brave, all desolate and lone, the bleak au- 
tumnal sky. 

Alas ! the first, the yellow leaf— how sadly falls 
it there. 

To rustle on the crisped grass, with every chil- 
ly air ! 

It tells of those that soon must drop all withered 
from the tree. 

And it hath waked a sadder chord in deathless 
' memory. 

! Thou eddjnng leaf, away, away, there's sorrow 
in thy hue ; 
Thou soundst the knell of sunny hours, of buds, 
and liquid dew — 



166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And thou dost tell how from the heart the blooms 

of hope decay ; 
How each one lingers, loath to part, till all are 

swept away. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 167 



MINISTERING SPIRITS. 

White-winged angels meet the child 

On the vestibule of life, 
And they offer to his lips 

All that cup of mingled strife; 
Mingled drops of smiles and tears, 
Human hopes, and human fears, 
Joy and sorrow, love and wo, 
Which the future heart must know. 



Sad the smile the spirits wear. 
Sad the fanning of their wings, 

As in their exceeding love 

Each a cup of promise brings; 

In the coming strife and care. 

They have promised to be there ; 

Bowed by weariness or grief, 

They will minister relief. 

Lady, could the infant look 
In that deep and bitter cup, 

All its hidden perils know. 

Would it quaff life's waters up ? 



168 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Lady, yes, for in the vase, 
Upward beams an angel-face ; 
Deep and anguished though the sigh, 
There is comfort lurking nigh — 
Times of joy, and times of wo, 
Each an angel-presence know. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 169 



FAREWELL TO PANCT. 

With thee no more, oh Fancy, can I stray, 
My dreamy eye tliroagh thee all things be- 
holding, 
No more with loitering feet, and hands en- 
folding, 
I seek the bower where flickering sun-beams 

play. 
Farewell, oh changeful spirit, we must part, 
Thou hast no portion in a weary heart. 

Farewell, the dew within the blossom's cup, 
An angel's face no more to me revealing — 
Glad voices now no more around me stealing, 

Fanned by thy wing may lift my spirits up ; 

My world is all too drear for thee, sweet sprite, 

And I will bid thee, one long, last good night. 

Yet linger thou, oh ! when the stars are out. 
Let thoughts of thee, the weak, lone heart be- 

gailing. 
Steal gently in, and lure the lip to smiling; 



170 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Though darkness and distress may be about, 
The waving of thy robe I tain would see, 
Though thou art lost, for ever lost to me. 

I know that thou art deemed a lesser sprite. 
Thy rainbow wing unfit for lofty soaring ; 
Yet not the less for thee was my adoring. 
I, who have shrank in terror from a flight 
That leaving lowlier things, too oft hath left 
The aching heart of all its love bereft. 

Thou wilt not bide, thy .shadowy form each day 
More faint and faintly on my vision gleaming, 
May not the real screen,, with thy sweet seem- 
ing ; 
And yet thou can.'^t not turn thy face away — 
Though form be lost, thy .saddened eyes remain, 
Fond, gentle eyes, that lure me from my pain. 

Farewell, in all the ministry of life — 

Though visions fade, and such as once were 

keeping 
Bright vigils round, vigils that kuew^ no sleep- 
ing. 
May leave their place for others armed for strife, 
Yet blessed ones, 'tis sweet to think that ye, 
And such as ye, have watched our destiny. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 



THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 

There are no times nor seasons unto Him 
"Who fashioned forth this universal frame, 

The stars revolving weary grow and dim. 
The Pleiad leaves on high no lingering flame, 

Creations spring to birth, in age decay, 

And as a scroll the heavens shall pass away : 

And as a point to Him man's fearful life — 
Not by revolving sun nor changeful moon — 

Mark not by these his agony and strife ; 

Oh ! not by these his youth, his fervid noon, 

Thronged by emotions crowded to a span, 

Ages concentred in the life of man : 

And Thou, to whom all seasons are the same. 
Though blindly emng. devious in our way, 
Remember thou the weakness of our frame, 

Forgive, though late we bow to thee and pray; 
Though at the eleventh hour the offering be. 
Spurn not the spirit seeking thus to thee ; 
For unto thee, oh God ! a thousand years 
Is as man's yesterday of smiles and tears. 



172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE APPEAL. 

1 had rather have one kisse, 
Childe waters of tliy mouth ; 
Than I woulde have CliesUire and Lancashire bothe 
That lye by north and south. 

Old Ballad. 

I CAME to thee in workday dress 

And hair but plainly kempt, 
For life is not all holyday, 

From toil and care exempt ; 

I met thee oft with glowing cheek, 

Thus love its tale will tell; 
Though oft its after paleness told 
Of hidden grief as well. 

My eyes that drooped beneath thy glance 

To hide their sense of bliss, 
Let fall too oft the tears that tell 

Of secret tenderness. 



I sought for no bewildering lure 

Thy senses to beguile, 
But checked the woman playfulness, 

The witching tone and smile. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 173 

With hoasehold look and household word, 

And fraiik as maidens meet ; 
I dared witii earnest homely truth, 

Thy manliness to greet. 

For oh ! 60 much of truth was mine, 

So much of love beside, 
I wished in simple maidenhood 

To be thy chosen bride. 

Alas ! the russet robe no more 

Of humble life may tell, 
And thou dost say the velvet gear 

Becomes my beauty well. 

*T w^as thy dear hand upon my brow 
That bound each sparkling gem, 

But dearer far its slightest touch. 
Than all the wealth of them. 



Oh ! tell me not of gorgeous robes, 
Nor bind the jev/el there ; 

And tell me not with those cold eyes. 
That I am wondrous fair. 



I will not chide, I will not blame. 
And yet the thought is here, 

The thought so fraught with bitterness, 
It yieldeth me no tear. 



174 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

I gave thee tenderness too deep. 

Too deep for aught but tears, 
And thou wouldst teach the world's cold rule 

Which learned, the heart but sears. 

I gave thee all, the soul's deep trust. 

Its truth by soitow tried ; 
Nay start not thou, what hast thou given? 

Alas ! 'tis but thy pride. 

Give back, give back the tenderness 

That blest my simple love. 
And call me as in those dear days, 

Thine own, thy gentle dove. 



MISCEJ-LANEOUS POEMS. 



THE JEWISH CAPTIVE. 

Lo ! where Euphrates in his trauquil bed 
Scarce swells his heaving bosom to the light, 

While from the west a thousand hues are shed, 
To deck his waters, ere the sombre night 

Shall on his gorgeous palaces come down, 

And shroud each glory in his darkened frown. 

The stately obelisk has caught the ray, 
The sunset trembling on its graceful head, 

And the light winds come stealing on their way. 
To kiss the lily in its liquid bed ; 

The flexile willow bends unto the stream, 

And seems more lovely in the twilight gleam. 

A thousand flowers, that, through the scorching 
ray. 
Their sweetness from the sense had treasured 
up, 
Lavish their wealth upon the dying day 

And make an oftering pure of every cup, 
As if they bowed in worship to the sun. 
And offered incense when the day was done. 



MISCELLANEOUS fOEMS. 



Forth from a marble fount the waters plash, 
And twinkle down in many a mimic fall — 

That ever in the light like diamonds flash ; 
And in their melody they seem to call 

To old Euphrates, as he wanders by, 

And spreads his waters to the golden eky. 

A groap of maidens by the willows bend, 
And weave their tresses by the twilight sky, 

While ever on the air glad voices blend, 
And many a song and laugh are floating by 

To mingle with the sound of chiming waters, 

That lave the feet of dark-eyed Syrian daughters. 

i "Lo! here," cries one, "the captive Mara tends, 
1 Mara, the Jewess, queen-like in her wo ; 
I Though many a victor to her beauty bends, 
j The smile no more her gentle lips may 
I know. 

Not for her own she weeps.butJudah's wrongs, 
And pours her sorrows in their mystic songs. 

" Didst ever hear the music strange and high, 
The Jewish captives from their harp-strings 
bring, 
While Zion-ward they turn the kindling eye ? 
Mara, approach ; we fain would hear thee 
sing 
A song of Zion — such as once ye sang 
When Jordan's waters to the music rang." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177 



The captive flung her tresses from her brow, 
And upward raised her dark and tearless eye, 

Clasped her pale hands in agony of wo, 
And heaved her breast with many a smothered 
sigh; 

duick thronging visions o'er her spirit passed — 

She lived again where childhood's lot was cast. 

Lo ! sad Judea's vine-clad hills are there, 
And fruitful Jordan, with its many streams, 

Proud Lebanon, with cedars tall and fair, 
And, midst her desolation, sadly gleams 

Lone Zion, widowed, childless, and oppressed, 

A Rachel, for her first-bom son distressed. 

There, 'neath a cottage, where the trailing vine 
In many a festoon o'er the lattice clings, 

An ancient matron seems alone to pine, 

And calls her children, while her arm she 
flings, 

To clasp the shadows that her fancies raise, 

The cherished offspring of her happier days. 

But what is gi-ief like hers — that matron old. 
Who spreads her white locks to the evening 
sky. 

When Zion stands bereft — her altars cold ! 
And all her exiled children turn their eye 

To where the happier swallow builds her nest, 

And in the courts of God has found her rest. 



12 



178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



O'er Mara's soul the power of music rushed, 
Her harp the maidens from the willows bring: 

Forth from her lips high thoughts and feelings 
gushed, 
" How can I Zion's songs, a captive, sing ? 

How sing of Jordan, here by Babel's strand ? 

How sing of Judah, in this dark, strange land? 

" Oh Zion ! if I cease for thee 

My earliest vows to pay — 
If for thy sad and ruined walls 

I ever cease to pray — 
If I no more thy sacred courts '- 

"With holy reverence prize, 
Or Zion-ward shall cease to turn 

My ever-longing eyes — 
Or if the splendor round me thrown 

Shall move this Jewish heart, 
And make me cease to prize thy joy 

Above all other art — 
Or should I cease for Zion's courts 

To pray on bended knee. 
Or dare to bow to these blind gods, 

Forgetful, Lord, of thee. 
Oh may this hand no more with skill 

This sacred harp string sweep, 
And may this tongue cleave to my mouth 

In death's cold, silent sleep." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179 



SONG. 
I. 

ThE bird the sammer air that skims, 

A pathway leaves in space, 
Thi ugh it were vain the path it leaves, 

With human eye to trace ; 
The blossom that awhile looks up 

In gladness to the eye, 
Makes for its own bright, fragrant cup, 

A home within the sky. 

The bird flies on to other skies 

Its pathway all forgot. 
The flower yields up its many dies, 

The place as it were not ; 
And thus, 'tis thus will love depart, 

Nor leave behind a trace. 
Save urn-like from the broken heart. 

An incense marks the place. 



180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



SONG-. 
11. 

Thou art free as the air, I prithee away, 
Like a hee overburdened with sweets, 

Who roving mid blossoms, a moment will stay, 
To sip of each one that it meets. 

I would not detain thee if lured to depart, 
Thou cravest a love light and free, 

The rapture, the thrill, the doubt of the heart. 
Then why tarry longer with me ? 

I spurn from me vows which another may share, 
The smile that is lavished on all — 

This proud heart may battle with death or des- 
pair, 
It will not be longer thy thrall. 

Go revel in smiles — I blame thee, no never ! 

Win hearts that are fickle as thine, 
And forget, oh forget, both now and for ever, 

The truth and the fervor of mine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 181 



SONG-. 

111. 

Whisper love at star-light hour 

When the hush is deep around, 
And the dew upon the flower, 

Calleth incense from the ground. 
Whisper love when recent tears 

Dim the lustre of the eye, 
Wheji the smile delaying fears. 

Sorrow may be lurking nigh. 

Whisper love at holiest eve, 

When the lips are fresh from prayer, 
Never woman may deceive 

Him who kneels beside her there. 
Truth is hid in every star, 

Grief hath no deluding tone, 
And the holiness of prayer 

Blends two spirits into one. 



182 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE BUOOK. 

" Whither away, thou merry brook, 

Whither away so fast ! 
With dainty feet through the meadow green, 

And a smile as you hurry past." 
The brook leaped ou in idle mirth, 

And dimpled with saucy glee ; 
The daisy kissed in lovingness, 

And made with the willow free. 

I heard its laugh adown the glen, 

And over the rocky steep, 
Away where the old tree's roots were bare 

In the waters dark and deep ; 
The sunshine flashed upon its face. 

And played with flickering leaf. 
Well pleased to dally in its path, 

Though the tarrying were brief. 

" Now stay thy feet, O restless one. 
Where droops the spreading tree, 

And let thy liquid voice reveal 
Thy story unto me." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 | 



The flashing pebbles lightly rung, 

As the gashing music fell, 
The chiming music of the brook, 

From out the woody dell. 

" My mountain home was bleak and high 

A rugged spot and drear; 
With searching wind and raging storm, 

And moonlight, cold and clear. 
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine, 

For a fond and answering look ; 
But none were in that sohtude 

To bless the Uttle brook. 



" The blended ham of pleasant sounds 

Came up from the vale below, 
And I wished that mine were a lowly lot, 

To lapse, and sing as I go ; 
That gentle things, with loving eyes, 

Along my path should glide, 
And blossoms, in their loveliness. 

Come nestling to my side. 

I '• I leaped me down ; my rainbow robe 

Hung shivering to the sight, 
And the thrill of freedom gave to me 

New impulse of delight. 
A joyous welcome the sunshine gave, 

The bird and the swaying tree ; 
The spear-like grass and blossom start 

With joy at sight of me. 



184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

" The swallow comes with its bit of clay, 

When the busy spring is here, 
And twittering bears the moistened gift, 

A nest on the eaves to rear. 
The twinkling feet of flock and herd 

Have trodden a path to me, 
And the fox and the squirrel come to drink 

In the shade of the alder tree. 

" The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot, 

Comes hither with me to play, 
And I feel the thrill of his liglitsome heart, 

As he dashes the merry spray. 
1 turn the mill with answering glee, 

As the merry spokes go round. 
And the gray rock takes the echo up. 

Rejoicing in the sound. 

" The old man bathes his scattered locks, 

And drops me a silent tear ; 
For he sees a wrinkled, care-worn face 

Look up from the waters clear. 
Then I sing in his ear the veiy song 

He heard in years gone by, 
The old man's heart is glad again, 

And a joy lights up his eye." 

Enough, enough, thou homily brook; 

I'll treasure thy teachings well, 
And I will yield a heartfelt tear 

Thy crystal drops to swell ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



185 



Will bear like thee a kiudly love 
For the lowly things of earth, 

Remembering still that high and pure 
la the home of the spirit's birth. 




186 MISCELLANKOUS POEMS. 



THE SLEEP OE PLANTS. 



The leaves of plants are observed to take a diflerent position 
in the night season, being folded over the germ, and the whole i 
presenting the appearance of rest. A species of tlie acacia, the I 
common locust, is a beautiful example of this; whence a child j 
once prettily said, "It isn't time to go to bed, till the acacia 
goes to sleep I" Linnajus elegantly terms this property, " The 
sleep of plants." 

Away, pretty zephyr, away, away, 

The flowerets all are sleeping, 
The moon is out with her silver ray, 

The stars, too, watch are keeping ; 
It is all in vain, thou silly thing, 
To lavish the incense from thy wing ; 

They will not awake from love of thee. 

Gay idler from sunny skies, 
Who dippest thy wing in the glassy sea, 

Stealing along with quick surprise. 
Bending the grass, and bowing the grain, 
A moment here, and away again. 

Nay ! toss the leaves, it is useless all, 

For closed is each dewy eye. 
The insect-hum, and the water-fall, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 187 

Are singing their lullaby; 
And each in folding its mantle up, 
An incense pressed from its perfumed cup. 

The blushing bud is but lightly stirred, 

The pendent leaf is at rest, 
And all will sleep, till the little bird 

Springs up from its dewy nest ; 
And then the blossom its head will raise, 
To greet the morn with a look of praise. 



188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE FLOWER OF INNOCENCE, 

HOUSTONIA CiERULEA. 

It comes when wakes the pleasant spring, 

"When first the earth is green, 
Four white or pale blue leaves it hath, 

With yellow heart between. 

It grows about a heap of stones, 

For there the dew w^lll stay, 
It springs beside the dusty road, 

Where children are at play. 

It dots with stars the grassy bank 

That slopes adowu the brook, 
And there it takes a deeper blue, 

And there a gayer look. 

On upland sod when doomed to bloom, 
Its leaves are small and white, 

As if it shrank within itself. 
And paled amid the light. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 189 



A dweller in a common path, 
With myriads of its kind, 

Yet doth its unpretending grace 
A oneness bring to mind : 

Like household charities that seem 

So native to the heart, 
That we forget, in seeing all, 

That each is fair apart. 

We call thee Innocence, sweet one, 
And well it thee beseems, 

For thou art cherished in the heart, 
With oiiildhood's sinless dreams. 



190 MISCELLANEOUS POE IS. 



THE OLD MAN. 

Old man, gray man, who sittest there 

In the shadow of the tree, 
The winds at play in thy scattered hair, 

What may thy visions be ? 
Vacant, and lone, and aimless, thou, 
God pity thee, thou old man, now. 

There is no so and by the cottage hearth, 

To thrill thy heart again, 
Thy dull ear greeteth no voice of mirth, 

Thine eye may seek in vain 
The kindly look of the loving heart ; 
Too soon do such from the earth depart. 

Thou shakest, old man, thy hoary head, 

The flitting past to recall ; 
Let it fade, let it fade, thy heart is dead, 

Why shouldst thou lift the pall ? 
What is now to thee the bustle and strife, 
That lured thee on in thy early hfe ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 191 

Let the record fade — it is naaght to thee, 

Its mission hath long been o'er, 
'T would puzzle thy brain, could these strange 
things be 

Revealed to thy sight once more, 
Thou wouldst wonder and ask if this were all, 
That kept thy spirit so long in thrall. 

It is well for thee, that blunted now 
Are the pangs that pierced thee through. 

The griefs that have blanched thy sunken brow, 
Vain hopes thy young heart knew ; 

'Tis a blessed thing, old man, for thee, 

That lost is the page of memory. 



192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE DROWNED MARINER. 

A MARINER sat on the shrouds one night, 

The wind was piping free, 
Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight 

pale, 
And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the 

whale, 

As he floundered in the sea ; 
The scud was flying athwart the sky, 
The gathering winds went whistling by. 
And the wave as it towered, then fell in spray, 
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray. 

The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast, 

But the tumult pleased him w^ell, 
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast, 
And the monsters watched as they hurried past, 

Or lightly rose and fell ; 
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, 
And they lashed as they passed the vessel's side, 
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim. 
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. 



MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. i'J3 

Now freshens ihe gale, and the brave ship goes 

Like an uncurbed steed along, 
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, 
As her gallant prow the water plows — 

But the ship is fleet and strong : 
The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled, 
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery "world, 
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood; 
But there came no chill to the mariner's blood. 



Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease, 
And holds him by the shroud ; 

And as she careens to the crowding breeze, 

The gaping deep the mariner sees, 

And the surging heareth loud. 

Was that a face, looking up at him, 

With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim? 

Did it beckon him down ? did it call his name? 

Now roUeth the ship the way whence it came. 



The mariner looked, and he saw with dread, 

A face he knew^ too well ; 
And tlie cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, 
And its long hair out on the wave was spread. 

Was there a tale to tell ? 
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed. 
And the mariner groaned, as well he need, 
For ever down, as she plunged on her side, 
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide. 

13 " 



194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past, 

A voice calls loud for thee — 
There's astiHed prayer, the first, the last. 
The plunging ship on her beam is cast. 
Oh, where shall thy burial be? 
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken, 
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken, 
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee — 
For thou art alone on the raging sea : 



Alone in the dark, alone on the wave. 

To buffet the storm alone — 
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, 
To struggle, and feel there is none to save — 

God shield thee, helpless one ! 
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past. 
The trembling hands on the deep are cast. 
The white brow gleams a moment morij. 
Then slowly sinks — the struggle is o'er. 



Down, down where the storm is hushed to sleep, 

Where the sea its dirge shall swell. 
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep. 
And the rose-lipped shell her rnasic keep. 

There thou shalt slumber well. 
The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side, 
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride. 
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's 

brow, 
Aa they slowly sunk to the wave below. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 195 



A peopled home is the ocean bed, ,<^ 

The mother and child are there — 

The fervent youth and the hoary head, 

The maid, with her floating locks oujspread, , 
The babe with its silken hair, 

As the water moveth they lightly sway, | 

And the tranquil lights on their features play ; 

And there is each cherished and beautiful form; 

Away from decay, and away from the storm. 



196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE SUMMONS ANSWERED. 



" To sleep— perchance to drenm." 

Shakspi 



Stout men and bold were the bacciiauals three 

Who left the inn that night — 
And they were trollujg a merry glee 

Out under the clear starlight. 
To steady themselves their Tiome to reach, 
They placed a hand on the sl)oaIder of each — 

In friendly mood were tJiey ; 
The white owl starts with a quivering screech 

At the midnight roundelay. 

Waning and dim is the cloudless moon — 

The solemn trees move not ; 
Yet the dry leaf stirs, where it hangs alone, 
On the autumn branch to shiver and moan, 

A thing wellnigh forgot. 
The slippery leaves are damp to the tread. 

Yet they crush beneath the foot, 
With a sound that now is a sound of dread, 

That blends with the white owl's hoot 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 197 

Long is the lane that the bacchanals go, 

And they have ceased the song — 
For the still night stilleth their hearts also, 

And whispereth of wrong ; 
The thin moon shineth dim below 

On a moss-green oaken door — 
Above is the shivering, withered grass, 

Beneath is a mouldy floor ; 
But the dead are hushed by prayer and mass, 

And they will stir no more. 



There paused the three at " the dead of night,' 

'T were strange to tell the why — 
The shadows crept in the wan moonlight. 
Yet they lingered there, and felt no fright, 

Till one more bold drew nigh, 
And loud he knocked, and an oath he swore ; 

Aghast then fled the two — 
For slowly opened the moss-green door. 

And within a hand him drew. 



Damp, damp is the room — a glow-worm ray 

The reeking vault revealing, 
Shows where the dead in their old shrouds lay, 
Solemn and hushed in their slow decay. 

The worm around them stealing. 
With a stilhiess, stillness pulseless there — 

A stillness deep and cold : 
How still and lone is the heavy air, 

Where the dead their slumber hold I 



198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

He sat him down ou a mouldy seat, 

No strength liad he to Hee ; 
And the white worm crawled to Richard's feet, 
He felt its touch on his fingers meet, 

Small heart had he for glee ; 
And the stillness, stillness deeper crept; 

It seemed on his heart to lie. 
All night with the dead young Richard slept, 

Yet awake was the inner eye. 



The dead moved not, but dreamless slept, 

With their faces upward turned ; 
They who had wearisome vigils kept, 
Hoping and loving, though all was wrecked. 

No more with tenderness yearned. 
Pleasant they slept, from their sorrow at rest, 

And Richard feared them not ; 
For the anguish borne in his own dark breast. 

Seemed a far more dreary lot. 



This restless life, with its little fears, 

Its hopes, that fade so soon, 
"With its yearning tenderness and tears — 
And the burning agony, that sears — 

The sun gone down at noon ; 
The spirit crushed to its prison wall. 

Mindless of all beside ; 
This young Richard saw, and felt it all — 

Well might the dead abide ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 199 

Tlie orimson light in the east is high, 

The hoar-frost coldly gleams, 
And Richard, chilled to the heart wellnigh, 
Hath raised his wildered and bloodshot eye, 

From that long night of dreams ; 
He shudders to think of the reckless band. 

And the fearful oath he swore ; 
Bat 2iiost, when he thinks of the clay-cold band 

That opened the old tomb door. 



200 MlSCELtA5K0US POEMS. 



THE TWICE-TOLD SEAL. 

THE MOTTO BEING "GOD BLESS YOU,' 

The letter was a common one, 

A business letter too, 
Announcing some commission done, 

And thence its words were few. 
I read it idly, tossed it by, 

And then a pretty seal 
Afid kindly motto met my eye, 

That gave my heart to feel 

A something more than business air, 

As if for gentle dame 
A dash of chivalry were there, 

Half blended with her name. 
And made the slightest office seem 

A genial one to do — 
It might have been a woman's dream, 

Which she from knighthood drew ; 

It might have been ; perchance the seal 

Was carelessly applied — 
" God bless you," has a look of zeal, 

Of earnest truth beside — 



MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. 



I lingered on the words awhile ; 

They alway touch the heart, 
Arid oft, too oft, a tear beguile, 

When the beloved depart. 

Days paesed away the seal once more 

I read with sweet surprise — 
Not careleps now, if so before, 

" God bleys you " meets mine eyes ; 
Some gentle hand the words again 

Beneath the seal repeats, 
And my heart feels nor idle, vain, 

The blessing that it meets. 

I know not whose the gentle hand, 

If ever pressed in mine, 
If often met in social band 

Where honor, truth combine ; 
I only feel, howe'er unknown, 

Though drear life's path may be, 
A quiet joy that there is one 

Who thus remembers me. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE VOICE OF THE AGE. 



THE SIGNERS OF THE DECLARATION OF INDE- 
PENDENCE. 

Thou mighty ocean ! meetly art thou made, 
A type of human ages — thy great voice 
The tumult of a people roused to act — 
Thy waves incessant beating to the shore, 
Weak in their first assay, yet gathering strength 
And volume as they rise, till one vast wave 
Surging with mountain-height o'er-leaps the 

strand, 
A semblance fitting man's progressive thought. 
Ages on ages doth he onward toil, 
The dim lights shielding that his pathway 

cheer — 
Crushing with his gyved hands the clanking 

chain 
That Might reveal the progress of his feet. 
Until his hour is come, and then like thee 
He leapeth to the rock, amid the roar 
Of breakers, on the vantage ground he stands 
With planted foot, assured of his own strength. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 203 



And ye stern men, whose names are here affixed, 
God-like although ye were, Freedom's last 

hope, 
Her "forlorn-hope," prayer-armed, and mar- 
shalled forth 
Her banner to uphold, and firmly plant 
Upon the citadel of human rights, 
I honor ye far less than man's great thought. 
Ye did become his utterance — ye his voice. 
Emerging from his gloom, with giant force ; 
He spurned the barriers in his pathway hid, 
And tore the shackle from the free-born limb — 
His proud brow bearing free to the free 

heaven. 
And as he moved a sound tumultuous rose — 
For his great spirit cried, yet words had not— 
It shouted to the mountain and the wave — 
That fetterless were left — the wild old woods, 
And the free dweller there — to winds that go 
And w^ait no bidding, 'Twas the uncui'bed voice 
Of nature calling fiercely for her own, 
It was the heating of the human mind. 
Against the battlements of power. 
Then were ye marshalled forth, and man's 

great cry 
A language found. Ye stood upon the vantage 

field, 
His arm had won, and like a tnimpet tone 
Your voice became the utterance of his thought 
Man fixed his footing there, and he grew calm 
In his own might — the strong limb etronger 
grew — 



204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The nerve was firmly braced — the wild pulse 

beat, 
A calm and measured flow, that told of health. 
And thus upon the citadel of thought 
Ye proudly stood the voice of human kind, 
And ye are made immortal — thus should be — 
Ye have become the watch-word of the free — > 
And long, O ! long, shall man's great soul 

move on, 
Concentring thought, like vs^ave succeeding 

wave, 
To seize on higher truths and holier jights 
Ere such as ye shall speak — and then afar 
In the long lapse of ages shall arise. 
From some high battlement which he hath won, 
A trumpet cry, which ye shall answer back 
With hearty cheers, that stronger heights are 

gained. 

The above poem is one of those things, which a 
writer at all capable of separating the conceptions 
of his own mind from the suggestiveness of another, 
is puzzled to know how to dispose of. It was writ- 
ten immediately after an animated discussion with 
a nobly-endowed friend, to wliom the writer is wil- 
ling to acknowledge many a mental obligation, and 
the thouglit therein contained belongs less to her- 
self, than to her companion. 



1^ 



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